0 


A-  in 


THE   LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 


WHEN  I  GET    EM  OUTSIDE,  BE  READY  TO  SHOVE  THE  BED  AGAINST  THE 
DOOR.      IF  I  FALL,  SHOOT  TO  KILL!" 


THE 
LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

A    ROMANCE 


BY 

HAROLD  MAcGRATH 


HARPER   y    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
NEW     YORK     AND     LONDON 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 


Copyright.   1917,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published    September,  1917 


THE   LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 


2066149 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 


CHAPTER  I 

UPON  a  certain  June  afternoon,  toward  the  end 
of  the  month,  had  you  looked  into  the  cellar 
of  Burns,  Dolan  &  Co.'s  plumbing-shop  you  would 
have  found  a  certain  young  Irishman  by  the  name 
of  William  Grogan  eying  mechanically,  yet  pro- 
fessionally, the  glowing  end  of  his  soldering-iron. 
There  was  a  fixity  in  his  gaze,  a  lack-luster  in  his 
eye,  familiar  to  all  psychologists  of  dreams.  The 
iron  fell  upon  the  drain-pipe  scientifically,  because 
William  had  reduced  the  building  of  dreams  to  a 
fine  art.  Having  set  his  hands  to  their  appointed 
task,  they  proceeded  to  go  on  automatically, 
leaving  his  spirit  free  to  roam  as  it  listed.  He  was 
like  that  Hindu  Yogi  who  could  set  his  body 
grinding  corn,  take  his  soul  out  and  go  visiting 
with  it. 

William  belonged  to  the  supreme  order  of  rain- 
bow-chasers. All  horizons  were  merely  circles  of 
linked  pots  of  gold.  It  follows  naturally  that  he 
possessed  a  fleet  of  serviceable  magic  carpets; 
and  he  sailed  with  superb  confidence  toward  his 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

rainbow-ends.  If  this  or  that  one  vanished,  presto ! 
he  promptly  arched  another.  It  cost  nothing. 
He  was  twenty-four,  and  that  is  the  high  noon 
of  the  rainbow-chaser.  Beyond  this  age  one  be- 
gins to  look  back  at  the  wrecks. 

In  parenthesis,  before  I  go  any  further,  do  you 
believe  in  magic  carpets,  in  our  times  better  known 
as  day-dreams?  I  mean,  do  you  believe  in  letting 
yourself  drift  on  the  wings  of  a  pleasant  fancy 
at  odd  moments  during  a  dull  workaday?  If  you 
know  anything  about  the  preciousness  of  these 
little  intervals  between  actions,  when  you  stand 
or  sit  motionless  and  gaze  beyond  the  horizon 
into  that  future  which  presently  or  by  and  by  is 
to  roll  over  the  rim  of  the  world  with  fulfilment — 
why,  then,  come  along.  For  this  is  a  story  of  a 
rainbow,  part  of  which  was  found. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  poets,  professional  and 
instinctive;  and  William  was  a  poet  by  instinct. 
He  could  not  express  himself  in  words;  his 
rhymes  were  visions.  He  was  by  trade  a  journey- 
man plumber;  inclination  as  well  as  necessity  had 
driven  him  into  it.  He  found  Romance  in  lead 
pipes,  sheet  tin,  gas  and  water  mains.  To  his 
mind  there  was  nothing  quite  so  marvelous  as  the 
amazing  cobweb  of  pipes  and  mains  that  stretched 
across  the  great  city  a  few  feet  under  the  surface. 
Who  but  a  poet  would  have  <••  ^pped  in  fancy  the 
masonry  from  the  cloud-touching  monoliths,  and 
viewed  the  naked  pipings,  twisting  and  elbowing, 
bending  and  rearing,  more  wonderful  than  any 
magic  beanstalk — water  and  power  and  light! 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Born  in  New  York,  thrown  upon  the  streets  at 
nine,  at  an  age  which  poets  (the  professional  kind) 
love  to  call  tender,  but  which  in  reality  is  tough, 
William  was,  at  twenty-four,  a  thoroughly  metro- 
politan product.  He  was  keen  mentally,  shrewd 
in  his  outlook,  philosophical  as  all  men  are  who  in 
youth  knew  rude  buffets,  hunger,  and  cold.  He 
was  kindly,  generous,  quick-tempered,  and  quick- 
forgiving;  and  he  was  not  above  defending  his 
"honor  and  territory,"  when  occasion  required, 
by  the  aid  of  his  fists.  An  idea,  entering  his  head, 
generally  remained  there;  and  when  he  offered 
his  friendship  his  heart's  blood  went  with  it.  He 
was  Irish. 

He  talked  in  the  argot  of  the  streets;  not  be- 
cause he  knew  no  better,  but  because  habit  is  not 
only  insidious,  but  tentacled.  It  was  only  when 
he  began  to  attend  night-school  that  he  was  made 
to  realize  that  he  was  not  a  purist;  and,  being  am- 
bitious, he  strove  to  curb  this  passion  for  un- 
orthodox English.  On  guard,  he  spoke  sensibly 
and  correctly;  but  if  he  became  excited,  embar- 
rassed, or  angry,  he  spoke  in  argot  because  simple 
English  seemed  to  lack  what  he  called  punch. 
Strange  lingo!  All  nations  possess  it,  all  nations 
that  have  vagabonds  and  thieves  and  happy-go- 
luckies;  and  William  was  a  happy-go-lucky. 

The  carpet  he  was  sailing  on  at  this  precise 
moment  was  the  choicest  Ispahan  in  his  posses- 
sion, his  Ardebil:  a  home  all  his  own  some  day, 
a  garden  to  play  in,  a  wife  and  a  couple  of  kids. 

Presently  the  smell  of  sizzling  resin  brought 
3 


him  back  to  port.  That  was  the  one  fault  with 
his  ships  of  wool:  they  were  always  bringing  him 
back  to  port  before  he  really  got  anywhere.  He 
thrust  the  iron  into  the  cup  of  the  gasolene  furnace, 
and  sighed.  June  was  outside;  and  somewhere 
clouds  were  being  mirrored  in  the  streams  winding 
along  the  flower-laden  lips  of  green  meadows,  birds 
were  singing,  and  gay  little  butterflies  were  ful- 
filling their  brief  destinies  in  the  clover-fields. 
He  knew  that  such  things  were  going  on,  because 
he  had  read  about  them. 

"Aw,  and  me  here  in  this  cellar!"  he  murmured. 

He  directed  his  gaze  toward  the  basement  win- 
dow above  him,  toward  the  brilliant  sunshine 
which  broke  in  dazzling  lances  against  the  glass 
in  the  shop  across  the  street.  He  was  very  fond 
of  this  window.  It  was  the  one  bright  spot  in  his 
rather  dull  and  grimy  existence  in  the  employ  of 
Burns,  Dolan  &  Co.,  steam-fitting  and  fixtures. 

Day  after  day,  in  rainy  or  sunshiny  weather,  he 
viewed  the  ever-changing  panorama  of  boots  and 
shoes:  fat  ones  and  slim  ones,  the  smart  and  the 
trig,  the  run-down  and  the  patched.  He  saw 
youth  and  age  pass;  confidence  and  hesitance,  suc- 
cess and  failure,  joy  and  hopelessness.  The  step 
of  each  passer-by  was  to  him  a  wonderful  story 
whose  plot  was  ever  in  embryo.  Whence  did  they 
come,  these  myriads  of  feet,  and  whither  did  they 
go?  The  eternal  stream  which  flowed  past  that 
little  window!  There  was  ebb  and  flood  all 
through  the  day,  and  the  real  marvel  of  it  was 
that  each  pair  of  shoes  was  going  somewhere,  had 

4 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

a  destination  and  a  destiny.  Out  of  this  pair  or 
that  William  constructed  the  character  of  the 
owner;  and  he  often  builded  better  than  he  knew. 
He  saw  this  strange  world  of  his  through  the  eyes 
of  a  Balzac;  but  he  could  only  visualize,  he  could 
not  transcribe  his  deductions  or  marshal  them 
coherently.  He  knew  that  this  man  drank  for 
the  joy  of  it,  that  that  one  had  something  to  for- 
get; he  knew  when  old  man  Hennessy  had  just 
lost  his  job  and  Heinie  Stahl  had  found  one.  Here 
was  a  young  woman  going  to  meet  her  lover,  here 
was  one  who  carried  a  heartache;  all  in  the  step. 
And  there  was  the  broad,  flat,  shapeless  shoe  be- 
longing to  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  women,  from 
Tony  Cipriano's  thrifty  wife,  always  bearing  chil- 
dren, down  to  the  wheezing,  gin-soaked  virago  who 
scrubbed  floors  for  her  ten-cent  pieces.  Nor  did 
he  ever  grow  tired  of  the  angular  legs  of  childhood; 
these  were  the  leaven  of  humor  in  a  grim  procession 
of  tragedies.  Wasn't  that  the  baker's  kid  that 
just  went  by,  hippity-hoppity,  headed  for  the  soda- 
fountain  ? 

Out  of  this  fantastical  world  of  shod  feet,  one 
pair  became  of  peculiar  interest.  They  were 
feminine;  and  it  was  but  natural  that  William 
should  build  him  a  romance.  Their  regularity  of 
appearance  first  appealed  to  him;  later  he  added 
little  characteristics.  She  was  young,  sensible, 
and  a  wage-earner  like  himself.  She  was  young, 
because  there  was  always  a  spring  to  her  step; 
sensible,  because  she  wore  low  shoes  in  the  summer 
and  stout  boots  in  the  winter.  There  was  no 

5 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

nonsense,  no  embroidered  silks;  old-fashioned 
lisle  and  wool  were  good  enough  for  her.  That  she 
was  a  wage-earner  there  could  be  no  doubt.  At 
eight  o'clock  each  morning,  Saturday  and  Sunday 
excepted,  she  walked  east  with  confident  step. 
Never  had  he  seen  it  drag  or  falter.  It  was  a 
small  and  shapely  foot,  alluring,  but  not  enticing. 
Perhaps  the  picture  lasted  three  seconds;  eastward 
at  eight  in  the  morning  and  westward  at  four  in 
the  afternoon,  four  or  thereabouts.  He  pondered 
over  these  hours  for  some  time  before  he  fell  upon 
the  truth  of  the  matter.  She  was  one  of  the 
teachers  in  the  public  school  near  by.  Saturdays 
minus  and  the  gap  of  July  and  August  could  in 
no  other  way  be  explained. 

For  three  years  now  these  little  feet  had  twinkled 
past  the  basement  window.  The  odd  part  of  this 
singular  one-sided  romance,  William  was  never 
tempted  to  run  up  to  see  what  the  young  woman 
looked  like.  He  was  canny  for  an  Irishman.  He 
rather  preferred  his  dream.  There  were  lots  of 
homely  young  women  with  pretty  feet.  He 
hadn't  many  illusions  left,  this  young  philosopher 
of  the  soldering-iron,  and  he  wanted  to  keep  this 
one.  Besides,  what  good  would  it  do  to  "pipe 
her  fiz"?  If  he  spoke  to  her  she  might  put  him 
down  as  a  masher  and  walk  to  school  by  another 
route.  Let  it  be  as  it  was,  her  world  outside 
there  in  the  sunshine  and  his  in  this  smelly  cellar. 
But,  nevertheless,  he  often  wished  he  knew  a  girl 
such  as  he  imagined  this  one  to  be.  One  thing 
was  certain:  anywhere  in  the  world,  in  any  kind 

6 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

of  leather,  he  would  recognize  those  feet.  And. 
thereby  hangs  this  tale. 

I  have  forgotten  to  mention  that  William  was  an 
orphan.  Once  upon  a  time  this  condition  had 
embarrassed  him  considerably;  it  had  forced  him 
to  make  his  bed  in  empty  halls  and  areaways,  in 
stables,  in  dry-goods  boxes;  but  as  he  prospered 
he  outgrew  this  sense  of  isolation  and  this  style  of 
habitation.  His  father  and  mother  had  died 
within  a  few  months  of  each  other.  The  father,  a 
sober,  industrious  Hercules,  had  been  killed  out  in 
the  railroad-yards  where  he  had  served  as  section- 
boss.  The  widow  had  received  his  last  pay-en- 
velope, and  that  had  been  sufficient  to  pay  for  his 
casket.  Naturally,  this  casket  had  to  have  silver 
handles  and  a  silver  plate  with  his  name  and 
sundry  encomiums  engraved  upon  it  lest  in  the 
final  census  he  be  overlooked.  When  the  widow 
died  the  kindly  neighbors  saw  to  it  that  her  casket 
was  just  as  fine,  which  entailed  a  noisy  valedictory 
of  the  Grogan  household  effects.  Hence,  on  the 
night  following  her  burial,  William  found  himself 
under  a  counterpane  of  stars,  lonely  and  dis- 
tressed, but  cheered  occasionally  by  the  thought 
that  he  would  not  have  to  go  to  school  any  more. 
William's  inheritance  was  therefore  but  slightly  in 
excess  of  what  it  had  been  upon  his  arrival:  the 
clothes  on  his  back  and  a  growing  boy's  appetite. 

To-day,  however,  all  these  difficulties  were 
vague  memories.  I  doubt  if  he  ever  looked  back. 
He  was  of  the  breed  who  are  always  looking  for- 
ward, hunting  for  stepping-stones.  He  drank  a 
2  7 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

social  glass  of  beer  occasionally,  smoked  strong 
tobacco,  weighed  a  hundred  and  ninety  pounds, 
was  as  tough  and  sturdy  as  a  coastal  oak,  and 
marched  along  the  straight  road,  because  if  his 
hands  were  steeped  in  grime,  his  heart  was  clean. 

Fifteen  lonely  metropolitan  years,  some  of  them 
fields  of  muck,  others  narrow  and  dangerous  as 
tight-ropes,  still  others  like  the  trail  up  the  Matter- 
horn;  and  to  come  through  unscathed,  with  a 
sound  body  and  a  sane  mind!  The  truth  is,  Wil- 
liam was  born  with  a  strong  sense  of  humor,  which, 
as  a  life-raft,  has  carried  more  human  beings  into 
safe  harbors  than  the  ten  thousand  decalogues  of 
the  ten  thousand  creeds.  There  was  an  ironic 
edge  to  this  humor,  however.  Men  who  are  born 
and  bred  in  New  York  and  begin  life  in  the  streets 
never  quite  lose  the  gamin's  sardonical  outlook. 

I  wish  I  could  truthfully  state  that  William  was 
handsome.  The  clay  was  rich  and  beautiful,  but 
the  finishing  touches  would  have  barred  him  from 
a  niche  correspondingly  as  prominent  as  that 
given  the  Apollo  in  the  Vatican.  In  repose  his 
countenance  was  rugged;  animated,  it  became 
merry  and  smile-provoking.  There  was  a  gener- 
ous sprinkling  of  paprika  on  his  pug-nose  and  on 
the  adjacent  sides  of  his  cheeks;  and  his  hair  was 
so  red  that,  given  the  proper  foreground  and  per- 
spective, he  might  easily  have  been  mistaken  for 
a  Turner  sunset.  Perhaps  the  Master,  having 
.given  William  a  perfect  body,  considered  it  unwise 
(for  William's  welfare)  to  add  a  perfect  face.  Even 
then,  in  one  particular,  he  had  relented.  When 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

you  looked  into  William's  eyes,  you  forgot  the 
red  hair  and  freckles.  These  eyes  were  as  blue 
as  Ionian  seas,  kindly  and  mirthful,  and  there 
was  something  electric  in  them,  something  which 
mysteriously  flashed  blue  fires  like  the  sea-water 
in  the  famed  Blue  Grotto  of  Capri;  the  eyes  of  a 
fighter  who  could  also  lose  himself  in  fine  dreams. 

He  read  a  good  deal,  borrowing  his  books  from 
the  great  public  library;  and  his  head  was  filled 
with  an  odd  jumble  of  classics  and  trash,  truth 
and  untruth;  and  his  faith  in  what  he  read  was 
boundless.  But  humanity  could  not  fool  him. 

Out  of  this  reading  he  wove  a  second  magic 
carpet,  nearly  as  attractive  as  his  Ardebil.  He 
longed  to  travel,  to  see  Europe,  Africa,  Asia,  all 
those  queer  places  he  had  read  about.  He  yearned 
for  trains,  steamships,  donkeys,  rickshaws,  camels 
and  elephants,  jungles  and  snow-caps,  deserts 
and  South  Sea  islands.  He  wanted  to  shake  down 
cocoanuts  by  hand,  pick  oranges  and  bananas;  he 
wanted  a  parrot  that  could  talk  like  Long  John 
Silver's — "Pieces  of  eight!  Pieces  of  eight!" 

"A  fat  chance!"  he  always  murmured  upon  dis- 
persing these  tantalizing  visions.  "A  home-run 
in  the  last  half  of  the  ninth  inning!"  Hadn't  it 
taken  him  six  years  to  save  up  eight  hundred  dol- 
lars ?  And  how  far  would  that  carry  him  ?  About 
as  far  as  the  Hoboken  docks. 

Four  o'clock !  She'd  be  dancing  by  in  a  moment 
or  two.  Next  week  she  would  be  going  away  on 
her  vacation.  He  set  the  drain-pipe  in  the  corner 
and  put  out  the  furnace.  He  pressed  some* 

9 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

' '  scrap ' '  into  his  corn-cob  pipe  and  waited.  There 
she  was!  One,  two,  three  and  she  was  gone.  Tan 
shoes  and  stockings  and  a  bit  of  blue  skirt.  It  was 
all  over  in  three  seconds,  like  one  of  those  moving- 
pictures. 

"H-e-y,  Bill!"  some  one  called,  from  up-stairs. 

"Ye-ah.     What's  wanted?" 

"Letter  for  you.     Shall  I  throw  it  down?" 

"I'll  be  up." 

A  letter?  Who  could  be  writing  to  him?  He 
never  had  any  bills ;  he  paid  as  he  went  along.  He 
rammed  his  unlighted  pipe  into  his  hip  pocket 
and  mounted  the  stairs.  The  young  girl  who 
acted  as  bookkeeper,  stenographer,  and  cashier 
thrust  the  letter  into  his  hand. 

"Oh,  you  William!"  she  cried.  "Some  girl  we 
don't  know  anything  about." 

"Aw!"  He  studied  the  envelope  doubtfully. 
"Hargreave,  Bell  &  Davis,  attorneys  and  coun- 
selors at  law.  Say,  Susie,  have  I  been  buying  a 
sewing-machine,  or  have  I  fallen  for  some  nifty 
book-agent's  gab?  I  don't  know  any  lawyers." 

"Open  it  and  see,"  advised  Susie. 

The  letter  was  coldly  brief.  William  Grogan 
was  requested  to  call  upon  "the  undersigned  at  his 
earliest  convenience."  Nothing  more  than  that. 
William  read  it  over  four  or  five  times,  and  it  grew 
colder  and  colder  with  each  reading.  Lawyers, 
and  after  him. 

"Where's  Burns?"  he  demanded. 

"In  the  office."  Susie  returned  to  her  little 
grilled  desk. 

10 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

William  walked  down  to  the  rear  end  of  the  shop 
and  rapped  on  the  office  door.  Ordinarily  he 
would  have  entered  without  formality. 

"Say,  Mr.  Burns,  what  kind  of  bunk  is  this?" 
He  laid  the  letter  upon  his  employer's  desk. 

"Humph!"  said  Burns,  who  was  practically 
Dolan  &  Co.  also.  "What  have  you  been 
doing?" 

"Who,  me?  Nothing.  They  haven't  lifted  me 
out  of  the  cradle  yet." 

"Got  any  relatives?" 

William  scratched  his  head  and  blinked  rumina- 
tively.  "Nobody  but  an  uncle  in  St.  Louis,  my 
mother's  brother;  an  old  crab,  who  got  sore  be- 
cause mother  didn't  marry  the  flannel-mouth  he'd 
picked  out  for  her.  Never  saw  him  nor  heard 
from  him." 

"Well,  you  take  to-morrow  morning  off  and 
look  into  it.  If  there  is  any  money,  Bill,  you 
bring  it  to  me.  There's  nothing  to  these  lawyers. 
You  bring  it  to  me." 

"Sure,  Mr.  Burns.  But  it's  a  pipe  there's  no 
dough.  Maybe  they  expect  me  to  settle  for  the 
funeral;  that  'd  be  my  luck." 

"Maybe  it's  a  breach-of -promise  suit." 

"Aw,  I  couldn't  get  into  the  Old  Ladies'  Home 
without  a  jimmy." 

"Well,  go  and  see  the  sharps,  and  then  come  to 
me.  Take  your  mother's  marriage  certificate 
along,  while  you're  about  it.  You  got  it?" 

"Ye-ah.  I  was  only  nine  when  she  died,  but 
she  was  some  mother." 

ii 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"They  all  are,  son,  they  all  are.  Haven't  put 
your  name  on  any  paper?" 

"Haven't  had  a  pen  in  my  hand  since  I  quit 
night-school  last  winter." 

"You  never  can  tell,"  said  Burns,  gravely. 
"But  if  you've  got  tied  up  any  way,  I'll  see  what 
I  can  do.  See  you  to-morrow."  Burns  chuckled 
as  William  went  out.  It  was  a  great  world. 

William,  in  a  distinctly  restless  frame  of  mind, 
left  the  shop  and  walked  homeward.  He  was 
filled  with  foreboding.  Some  lawyers  wanted  to 
see  him,  and  cold-blooded  ones,  too,  if  letters 
counted.  Burns  always  said  that  if  you  went 
to  court  for  anything,  the  lawyers  got  it.  What 
had  he  done,  anyhow?  He  combed  his  near-past 
thoroughly;  but  aside  from  two  or  three  pinochle 
games  over  at  the  engine-house  (two  bits  the 
corner),  his  record  was  as  spotless  and  shiny  as  new 
sheet-tin.  Oh,  well,  why  borrow  trouble?  They 
couldn't  get  blood  out  of  a  turnip,  and  besides, 
Burns  would  see  to  it  that  he  got  a  square  deal. 

Whenever  he  was  worried  or  in  the  doldrums, 
William  hied  him  forth  to  the  near-by  moving- 
picture  theater.  For  an  hour  and  a  half  he  could 
lose  himself  completely.  He  could  cast  off  trouble 
in  the  lobby,  even  if  that  little  old  man  of  the  sea 
jumped  on  his  back  again  as  he  went  out.  It  was 
something  to  have  cheated  trouble  out  of  an  hour 
and  a  half. 

Eight  o'clock  that  night  found  him  in  his  accus- 
tomed seat.  With  his  toil-bitten  hand  propping 
his  chin,  he  gazed  in  rapt  wonder  at  a  caravan  of 

12 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

camels  as  they  came  superciliously  down  the 
sand-hills  of  the  Libyan  desert.  Instantly  the 
scene  changed.  He  saw  the  bewildering  peoples 
of  the  bazaars.  Turbans  and  tarbooshes,  flowing 
robes  and  sandaled  feet,  fruit-sellers  and  water- 
carriers,  tourists  in  spotless  white  linen  and  sun- 
helmets;  and  presently  through  this  swarm  came 
the  heroine  on  a  scraggy  little  donkey.  The  vil- 
lain pointed  her  out  to  his  minions,  and  stealthily 
they  pursued  her  until  she  was  safe  and  happy 
in  her  lover's  arms. 

William  wasn't  much  interested  in  the  exploits 
of  this  heroine,  whose  salary  was  large  enough  to 
support  a  South  American  republic;  nor  was  he 
certain  that  the  Libyan  desert  and  the  bazaars 
were  not  located  south-by-east  from  Los  Angeles. 
But  the  camels  were  real ;  aye,  real  enough  to  whisk 
him  away  on  one  of  his  carpets  from  Bagdad, 
overseas,  to  that  wonderful  world  he  was  never  to 
see,  much  as  the  Irish  soul  of  him  hungered  for  it. 

During  the  short  intermission  he  idly  studied 
the  people  about  him.  At  his  left  sat  a  pretty 
young  woman,  in  cool  but  sensible  summer 
clothes.  He  spoke  to  her. 

"It's  a  great  business." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  she  replied,  fingering  the  single- 
sheet  program. 

"A  dime,  and  you  can  go  anywhere  in  the  world. 
I've  always  wanted  to  see  the  Orient." 

He  said  nothing  more,  and  gave  his  attention 
to  the  screen  where  the  announcements  of  coming 
features  were  being  projected.  And  because  he 

13 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

stopped  where  he  did  he  aroused  a  mild  curiosity 
in  his  neighbor.  She  recognized  that  here  was  no 
masher  type,  a  phase  of  the  moving-picture  theater 
that  had  caused  her  annoyance  more  than  once. 
He  was  just  a  comfortable,  every-day  sort  of  young 
man,  who  had  had  a  thought  and  had  expressed  it 
aloud  to  her  merely  because  she  happened  to  be 
sitting  next  to  him. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  heard  him  laugh  up- 
roariously at  the  antics  of  a  slap-stick  comedian. 
She  laughed,  too,  not  so  loudly,  perhaps,  but  quite 
as  heartily  and  humanly  as  this  unknown  red- 
headed young  man.  When  the  comedy  was  over 
he  tipped  back  the  seats  for  her,  and  presently 
she  lost  sight  of  him  in  the  crowd.  She  forgot 
all  about  him,  even  as  William  forgot  all  about 
her. 

The  next  morning  when  he  entered  the  outer 
office  of  Hargreave,  Bell  &  Davis,  a  small  boy,  not 
at  all  impressed  by  the  visitor's  ready-made  tie  and 
celluloid  collar,  jumped  up  and  confronted  him, 
coldly  amd  alertly. 

"Whadjuh  want?"  he  demanded. 

"Whadjuh  got?"  countered  William,  fiercely. 

"Bertie!"  called  the  girl  at  the  typewriter, 
warningly. 

"Oh,  so  his  name  is  Bertie,  huh?  Well,  Bertie, 
I  eat  'em  alive  when  they  call  'em  that.  I  want 
to  see  your  boss." 

"Nothin'  leakin'  in  these  offices,"  flung  back  the 
boy,  observing  William's  hands  and  sniffing  the 
faint  odor  of  gasolene. 

14 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"My  name  is  Grogan,"  said  William,  giving  the 
honors  to  the  boy  because  he  was  in  a  hurry. 

"  Oh !  Middle  door ;  Mr.  Bell, "  said  the  girl,  her 
eyes  full  of  sudden  interest. 

The  boy  shuffled  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 
"Mister  Grogan,"  he  announced,  with  fine  irony. 

"Show  him  in  at  once." 

As  he  was  passing  through  the  doorway,  William 
turned  and  lightly  blew  a  kiss  toward  the  boy, 
who,  thorough  sportsman  that  he  was,  recognized 
this  red-head  as  a  brother. 

"Mr.  Grogan?" 

"Yes." 

"Be  seated."  Mr.  Bell  was  a  middle-aged  man. 
"You  had  an  uncle  in  St.  Louis?" 

"Ye-ah;  Michael  Regan." 

The  lawyer  nodded.     "Your  mother's  name?" 

"Amelia.     Michael  was  her  brother." 

"Have  you  absolute  legal  proof  that  you  are 
Amelia  Regan's  son?" 

' '  Sure !' '  William  produced  the  marriage  certif- 
icate, pleased  that  Burns  had  suggested  bringing 
it. 

Mr.  Bell  adjusted  his  glasses.  "This  is  Amelia 
Regan's  certificate  of  marriage,  but  that  doesn't 
prove  you're  her  son,  Mr.  Grogan." 

"Turn  it  over,"  advised  William,  wetting  his 
lips  and  stretching  his  neck  out  of  his  collar,  which 
had  grown  suddenly  tight. 

"Ah!" 

On  the  reverse  side  of  the  certificate  was  the 
date  of  William's  arrival  into  this  mortal  coil, 

15 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

briefly  witnessed  by  the  doctor,  the  parish  priest, 
the  father,  and  two  neighbors. 

"That's  legal  enough  for  anybody.  We  knew 
all  about  you,  Mr.  Grogan,  but  the  legal  end  of  it 
had  to  be  satisfied.  You're  the  man  we're  after." 

"Say,  what  am  I  up  against?"  asked  William, 
huskily. 

"Your  uncle  died  a  month  gone.  He  left  his 
lumber  business  to  his  partner,  but  all  his  ready 
cash  he  willed  to  you  unconditionally.  Through 
us  he  kept  track  of  you,  your  work,  and  your 
habits.  I  am,  therefore,  empowered  to  turn  over 
to  you  the  sum  of  twenty-eight  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  fifty-six  dollars  and  thirty-one  cents. 
And  I  have  the  certified  check  in  my  safe  at  this 
very  moment."  Mr.  Bell  beamed  upon  his  client, 
awaiting  the  outburst  of  joy. 

But  no  outburst  came.  William's  mouth  opened 
and  his  derby  hat  slipped  from  his  hands  and  wab- 
bled about  on  the  floor  at  his  feet. 

The  dinosaurus  has  been  dead  for  some  time; 
but  if  one  had  poked  its  head  through  the  window 
at  that  moment  and  yammered  at  William,  he 
wouldn't  have  been  surprised;  he  would  have 
accepted  its  advent  as  a  part  of  the  nightmare. 


CHAPTER  II 

ALL  the  years  of  unremitting  toil  came  back  to 
him  in  panoramic  fragments.  He  had  al- 
ways managed  to  clothe  and  feed  himself,  with  a 
little  left  over  for  amusements.  At  half  past  six 
in  the  morning,  summer  and  winter  and  spring,  he 
was  up  and  off  for  the  day's  work  (with  that  cheer- 
ful and  optimistic  spirit  which  has  been  at  once 
millstones  and  eagle  wings  to  the  Irish).  ...  A 
fortune!  Was  he  really  awake?  Wait  a  moment. 
He  stared  at  the  slate-colored  doves  that  were 
sailing  over  and  about  the  church  spires  near  by, 
at  the  broad  silver  highway  by  which  the  great 
ships  went  down  to  the  sea,  at  the  blue  mists  of 
morning  still  hanging  against  the  Jersey  heights. 
Up  from  the  street,  deep  down  below,  came  the 
dull  thunder  of  the  Elevated.  There  was  not  the 
least  doubt  of  it;  he  was  wide  awake;  he  could  see 
and  he  could  hear.  Twenty-eight  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  fifty-six  dollars  and  thirty-one 
cents! 

"Say,  would  you  just  as  soon  say  that  all  over 
again — slow?"  he  asked  in  a  voice  which  he  knew 
was  his,  because  he  could  feel  it  coming  out  of  his 
throat;  beyond  that  it  was  wholly  unrecognizable. 

Mr.  Bell  laughed  happily  as  he  reached  for 
i7 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

William's  hat  and  placed  it  upon  the  dazed  young 
man's  knees.  He  was  thoroughly  enjoying  this 
scene;  he  wasn't  a  bad  man  at  heart;  he  was  only 
a  lawyer.  When  he  put  the  magical  slip  of  paper 
into  William's  trembling  hand  his  joy  was  com- 
plete. He  had  imagination;  he  knew  what  was 
going  on  in  William's  head. 

"Don't  pinch  me,  I  might  wake  up.  .  .  .  And 
thirty-one  cents!" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?"  asked  Mr. 
Bell,  curiously. 

William  suddenly  recalled  Mr.  Burns' s  warning 
relative  to  lawyers. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  doubtfully. 
' '  I  suppose  I'm  liable  to  raise  hell  with  this  thirty- 
one  cents.  The  Great  White  Way,  huh  ?  Why,  I 
can  make  the  Subway  blasts  sound  like  bursting 
paper  bags.  Nix  on  the  glow-worm,  Lena !  This 
dough  is  going  to  be  old-age  stuff,  believe  me.  No 
over-the-hills  for  William  Grogan.  Every  dollar 
is  worth  exactly  one  hundred  and  four  cents. 
I've  got  eight  hundred  in  the  bank,  and  I  know." 

"That's  the  proper  spirit.  If  you  want  any 
help  regarding  investments,  come  to  me,"  said 
Mr.  Bell.  He  was  having  a  fine  time;  he  felt  that 
glowing  satisfaction  which  is  always  warming  up 
the  hearts  of  good  fairies. 

"What's  this  cost  me?" 

"Nothing.     All  the  fees  have  been  paid." 

"From  the  dollar-sign,  then,  to  and  including 
the  thirty-one  cents  is  mine?" 

"Absolutely.  And  I  wish  you  good  luck  with 
18 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

it.  At  four  per  cent,  it  will  yield  you  something 
like  eleven  hundred  the  year." 

"Some  little  old  world!"  William  admitted  as 
he  fingered  the  check,  turned  it  about  and  stared 
at  it  with  ever-increasing  wonder.  "And  yester- 
day I  was  wondering  how  I  could  hit  the  high 
places  at  Coney  without  going  broke  for  the  rest 
of  the  week!"  He  laughed  weakly. 

"Have  a  cigar?" 

"Well,  say!" 

It  was  the  first  perfecto  William  had  ever  stuck 
between  his  teeth.  His  extravagance  in  this 
direction  consisted  of  "three  for  a  quarter"  every 
Sunday. 

He  went  down  the  elevator  expecting  every 
moment  to  ' '  roll  out  of  bed. ' '  He  became  obsessed 
with  the  idea  that  he  was  sleep-walking.  He 
pinched  himself  literally  and  thumped  his  chest, 
which  seemed  filled  with  champagne  bubbles. 
Oh,  he  was  awake ;  and  he  was  standing  under  the 
far-off  end  of  a  rainbow  and  the  pot  of  gold  lay  at 
his  feet!  Out  in  the  street  he  walked  on  silver 
flagstones,  and  the  air  he  breathed  was  evaporated 
wine  and  honey.  He  was  rich;  no  more  worry,  no 
more  drain-pipes,  bath-tubs,  kitchen  sinks.  No 
more  pothering  over  sums  on  the  back  of  his  pay- 
envelope,  Saturday  nights:  so  much  for  board  and 
extra  meals  at  noon,  so  much  for  washing,  so  much 
to  lay  away  in  the  bank;  no  more  that  vain  en- 
deavor to  stretch  a  short,  limp  five-dollar  note  over 
seven  long  days — spending-money.  He  was  rich. 

A  wild  desire  seized  him  to  go  forth  and  spend 
19 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

some  of  this  fortune,  just  to  prove  to  himself  that 
it  was  true.  But  he  buttoned  his  coat  tightly 
over  the  check  and  hurried  for  the  Subway. 
William  was  patently  Irish,  but  there  must  have 
been  a  strain  of  Scotch  blood  in  him  somewhere. 

"Well?"  inquired  Burns,  as  William  burst  into 
the  office  an  hour  later.  "Was  it  a  breach-of- 
promise  suit?" 

"Ye-ah.  But  we  settled  it  out  of  court,  and 
here's  the  alimony."  William  flourished  the 
check.  "Say,  I  renig.  That  uncle  of  mine  was 
no  crab;  he  was  pure  goldfish." 

"Well,  I'm  dinged!  Nearly  thirty  thousand, 
huh?  Fine  work,  son,  fine  work.  And  now  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  the  secret.  I  knew  all  about  it. 
The  lawyers  were  here  pumping  me,  and  you  bet  I 
told  'em  you  were  a  little  angel.  I  didn't  say 
anything,  because  I  wanted  you  to  get  all  the  fun 
out  of  it.  And  now  what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  it?" 

"I  was  thinking  maybe  I  could  buy  an  interest 
in  the  firm  here." 

Burns  scrubbed  his  chin.  ' '  It's  a  thriving  shop, 
Bill.  I  wouldn't  think  of  selling  any  of  my 
interest." 

"I  know  it's  a  good  business.  That's  why  I 
wanted  to  get  inside, "  said  William,  regretfully. 

' '  Say,  wait  a  minute.  Mrs.  Dolan  has  a  twenty- 
thousand-dollar  interest.  It  pays  her  between  six 
and  seven  per  cent.  Last  winter  she  talked  a  good 
deal  about  wanting  to  pull  out  and  go  back  to  her 
folks  in  Ohio.  Suppose  I  make  a  stab  and  see  if 

20 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

she's  of  the  same  idea  now?  You  come  up  to  the 
house  to-night  and  I'll  let  you  know  how  matters 
stand.  I'd  like  to  have  a  young  hustler  about." 
Burns  reached  for  his  hat.  "I'll  take  you  over  to 
the  Corn  Exchange  and  identify  you." 

"The  Lincoln  '11  do  that.  I  got  eight  hundred 
up  there." 

"Keep  it  there  and  let  'er  grow.  Whenever 
you  get  a  few  dollars  you  don't  feel  like  spending, 
slap  'em  into  the  Lincoln.  That  '11  be  the  real 
rainy-day  cash,  son.  When  a  man  has  two  bank 
accounts  he's  got  two  good  crutches." 

"You're  the  doctor." 

"Come  along.  If  we  can  bring  Mrs.  Dolan 
around,  you  can  buy  out  her  interest,  and  I'll 
put  you  over  the  contract  work.  With  your 
increased  salary  and  your  income  you'll  have 
something  like  four  thousand  a  year." 

"Me  and  John  D.,  huh?  Honest,  Mr.  Burns, 
my  head  feels  like  my  foot  was  asleep." 

"I  understand.  But  you're  awake."  Burns 
slapped  William  soundly  on  the  back.  "Feel 
that?  Come  on.  Better  keep  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred in  your  pocket  when  you  leave  the  bank. 
Bad  luck  to  draw  against  an  account  the  minute 
you  open  it." 

So,  with  two  hundred  and  fifty-six  dollars  and 
thirty-one  cents  in  his  pocket,  William,  upon 
being  left  to  his  own  devices,  wandered  over  into 
Broadway  and  took  an  up-town  car.  He  got  off  at 
Forty-second  Street,  which  he  knew  to  be  the  city 
axis — that  is,  if  you  had  money. 

21 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

What  should  he  do  by  way  of  celebrating 
this  momentous  event?  It  certainly  had  to  be 
celebrated.  A  glass  of  beer  and  a  cigar?  He 
laughed.  He  could  see  William  Grogan,  his  elbow 
crooked  on  the  polished  bar  of  yonder  great  hotel, 
drinking  beer  and'  confiding  to  the  blase  bartender 
that  he  had  just  deposited  a  fortune  in  the  Corn 
Exchange  and  was  aching  to  find  some  congenial 
soul  to  help  him  to  spend  it.  He  laughed,  blew  a 
kiss  toward  the  hotel,  and  went  on. 

Nevertheless,  he  celebrated.  A  few  doors  south 
from  the  hotel  he  ran  afoul  a  pipe-shop.  He  had 
always  wanted  a  real  meerschaum  pipe ;  a  lump  of 
clay  as  big  as  your  fist,  with  flowing  mermaids 
emerging  at  various  angles.  The  pipe  was  worth 
seven  dollars  in  money  and  not  a  picayune  in 
utility.  Human  teeth  weren't  grown  that  could 
stand  the  drag  of  that  pipe.  I  know;  I  have  seen 
it.  I  suppose  it  was  not  the  pipe  really;  the  fun 
lay  in  the  fact  that  something  he  had  always 
coveted  and  could  not  afford  was  now  his  for  the 
mere  physical  effort  of  paying  out  the  money.  I 
believe  the  feel  of  that  pipe  in  his  pocket  convinced 
him  as  much  as  anything  that  he  was  truly  awake. 

Pipe  in  pocket  and  peace  in  heart,  he  stepped 
forth  into  the  sunshine  again.  Well,  here  was 
little  old  Broadway,  famed  in  story-books  and 
theater  magazines  and  Sunday  newspapers,  the 
home  of  provincial  millionaires  and  chorus-girls, 
Fort  Lobster  and  Fort  Champagne  and  Fort  Tip. 
William  had  the  native  New-Yorker's  tolerant  con- 
tempt for  the  thoroughfare.  He  called  it  the 

22 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"collar  on  the  beer,"  the  rat-trap  for  "boobs"  and 
"hicks"  and  "come-ons, "  the  coal-chute  for 
papa's  money.  No  doubt  his  prejudice  had  been 
sown  and  nurtured  by  the  Sunday  newspapers. 
Dutifully  each  Sunday  they  recorded  the  Broad- 
way exploits  of  this  torn-fool  or  that.  The  Great 
White  Way:  waste,  extravagance,  wild-oats,  cold- 
blood  and  old-blood  and  lack-mercy.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  admired  the  physical  beauty  of  it; 
at  night  he  knew  it  had  no  counterpart  in  all  the 
wide  world. 

"Some  old  highway,"  he  murmured,  aloud, 
"but  it  '11  never  dig  a  nickel  out  of  my  jeans." 

He  wandered  on,  peering  into  this  window  and 
that,  full  of  lively  interest  in  everything  he  saw. 
By  and  by  he  summoned  a  carpet.  It  carried  his 
spirit  in  one  direction,  while  his  feet  led  him  in 
another,  toward  his  destiny.  Without  realizing  it, 
he  turned  off  Broadway  and  crossed  over  to  Fifth 
Avenue.  Here  the  fashionable  curio-shops  at- 
tracted him.  There  were  art-galleries,  too,  and 
windows  full  of  strange-looking  carpets  and  rugs. 
Presently  he  paused  before  a  window  which  had 
an  art-gallery  air,  but  wasn't.  Printers'  ink  in- 
stead of  oil  ruled.  There  were  great  ships  going 
down  to  sea,  tropical  isles,  the  Nile  country, 
India,  China,  Japan;  Arabs,  camels,  elephants, 
rickshaws,  and  bewildering  temples.  He  looked 
up  at  the  sign  overhead. 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that?"  he  mur- 
mured.    "Little   ol'    Thomas   Cook   and   Willie 
Grogan!    Well,  say!" 
3  23 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

But  he  did  not  move  on.  With  one  hand  prop- 
ping an  elbow  and  the  other  hand  stroking  his 
chin,  he  continued  to  stare  at  the  brilliant  litho- 
graphs and  strange  coins  and  paper  money.  Sud- 
denly he  knew  what  it  was  he  wanted.  He  drew 
out  his  bank-book  and  eyed  the  deposit:  $28,500. 

"Sure,  Mike!" 

He  chuckled  and  stepped  into  the  office  of  Thos. 
Cook  &  Son,  who  are  agents  for  Bagdad  carpets. 
A  dozen  persons  were  scattered  about,  interviewing 
clerks.  There  was  one  idle  clerk,  and  boldly 
William  approached  him.  He  hadn't  the  least 
idea  where  he  was  going,  but  he  knew  he  was  going 
somewhere,  that  he  was  going  to  tie  himself  up  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  prevent  caution  from  over- 
coming this  marvelously  likable  impulse.  All  his 
life  he  had  held  himself  on  the  leash,  and  now 
bang!  went  the  leather.  He  swallowed  two  or 
three  times;  his  throat  was  still  dry  from  the  fever 
he  had  acquired  at  the  law  offices  of  Hargreave, 
Bell  &  Davis.  The  clerk  smiled  reassuringly. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  sir?" 

"I  want  to  take  a  trip  around  the  world,"  said 
William.  The  words  went  down-hill  rapidly,  due 
to  his  inability  to  project  them  in  a  level  tone. 

If  the  clerk  had  turned  upon  him  scornfully  with 
a  "Beat  it,  bo,  while  the  beating's  good!"  William 
would  have  faded  from  the  scene  like  one  of  those 
double-exposures  which  still  mystified  him  at  the 
movies.  But  the  clerk  continued  to  smile,  and 
said,  affably,  "This  is  the  right  place  for  that." 

Eventually,  William  decided  upon  the  ship 
24 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Ajax.  The  boat  left  harbor  on  August  i$th 
for  a  six  months'  cruise  of  the  world,  landing  at 
San  Francisco  some  time  along  in  February.  The 
fare  included  all  travel  on  land  and  water.  It 
offered  the  tail-end  of  summer  in  Italy  and  the 
fall  and  winter  in  the  Orient. 

"That's  the  dope  for  me,"  declared  William, 
calming  himself.  "But  say,  I  haven't  got  the 
cash  with  me.  How'll  I  fix  it?" 

"Make  a  deposit  of  one  hundred,"  said  the 
clerk,  still  smiling.  William  certainly  did  not  look 
like  a  tour  of  the  world,  but  this  clerk  had  seen 
many  a  celluloid  collar,  and  they  were  deceiving 
things. 

The  joy  of  taking  a  roll  of  money  out  of  your 
pocket,  money  that  was  absolutely  and  wholly 
yours,  money  that  did  not  legally  belong  to 
creditors,  honest  money !  To  pay  out  one  hundred 
dollars  for  the  first  time  in  your  life !  To  consum- 
mate a  bargain  that  was  to  carry  you  to  the  far 
ends  of  the  world,  just  by  the  mere  wave  of  your 
hand!  Rainbows  were  real,  after  all. 

As  the  clerk  accepted  the  notes,  William  ob- 
served the  difference  between  his  own  and  the 
other's  finger-nails.  He  was  thunderstruck !  Cer- 
tainly he  could  not  go  traveling  with  finger-nails 
like  these.  True,  he  scrubbed  them  twice  a  day, 
but  the  grime  had  penetrated  beyond  the  reach  of 
ordinary  soap  and  water  and  bristles.  He  put 
the  receipt  for  his  deposit  in  his  wallet,  and  de- 
parted, chin  out,  chest  high.  He  had  done  it; 
no  side-stepping  now;  he  had  to  go  or  forfeit  his 

25 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

hundred,  and  that  he  would  never  do,  not  if  he 
had  to  be  wheeled  in  an  invalid's  chair  to  the  pier. 
And  yesterday  he'd  been  wondering  if  he  could 
afford  to  go  to  Coney  for  the  Sunday!  Wasn't 
he  the  gay  little  bird! 

But  his  fingers  began  to  worry  him  seriously. 
Something  must  be  done.  Hitherto  he  had  held  in 
contempt  manicured  fingers ;  but  Uncle  Michael's 
legacy  had  switched  his  outlook  on  to  the  main 
trunk,  among  the  thunderbolts. 

There  were  manicurists  in  all  the  hotel  barber- 
shops, so  he  resolutely  directed  his  steps  to  a  famed 
Broadway  caravansary  and  sought  the  basement. 
In  a  corridor  off  the  barber-shop  he  saw  a  row  of 
little  tables  and  at  each  table  sat  a  pretty  girl. 
He  could  see  that  most  of  them  knew  it;  and  all 
of  them  were  chewing  gum.  That  was  nothing. 
So  far  as  William  knew,  all  women  chewed  gum. 
He  was  not  above  a  cud  himself  once  in  a  while. 
He  entered  the  corridor  and  sat  down  at  a  table, 
assuming  a  nonchalance  he  did  not  feel,  for  on 
general  principles  William  laid  his  course  in  wide 
circles  where  women  were  concerned.  He  was 
less  bashful  than  suspicious.  However,  being  a 
New-Yorker  born,  nothing  less  than  the  inside  of  a 
church  could  abash  him.  The  girl  laid  aside  her 
magazine  and  eyed  him  haughtily. 

"Here's  a  real  job,"  he  said,  spreading  out  his 
formidable  hands. 

The  girl  noted  his  fine  eyes,  and  the  ice  around 
her  lips  crackled  a  little.  She  took  a  hand  and 
studied  it  with  frank  doubtfulness.  Then  she 

26 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

looked  at  the  clock.     It  was  quarter  past  eleven. 
"I  don't  know,"  she  said.     "I'm  off  at  five." 

"Some  job,  huh?  Well,  I  never  came  into  these 
wax- works  before." 

"Thought  not.  I've  a  friend  who  might  do  it 
in  less  time." 

"What's  her  name  and  address?" 

"It's  a  he-friend.  He  works  out  at  Bronx; 
manicures  the  elephants  in  the  spring." 

"Zowie!  Some  smoke  to  that  one,  believe  me! 
What  league  are  you  pitching  for?  The  truth  is, 
duchess,  I'm  a  journeyman  plumber  by  birth, 
and  an  uncle  of  mine  has  just  left  me  a  million 
silver  washers.  I'm  about  to  enter  the  gay  life, 
and  I  want  to  do  it  with  pink  nails." 

"Going  to  the  funeral?"  It  was  all  in  a  day's 
work :  Isobel  de  Montclair  for  the  swells  and  fresh 
guys  and  Nellie  Casey  for  the  stevedores. 

"Nope.  The  funeral  has  went.  Now,  laying 
aside  the  hook,  can  you  do  the  job  with  these  hams, 
Virginia  style?" 

"If  it  was  anybody  but  you,  Aloysius,  I  might 
say  nay.  But  you'll  have  to  buy  me  a  new  set  of 
tools." 

"You're  on." 

The  girl  stuck  her  gum  under  the  marble  top  of 
the  little  table  and  fell  to  work.  It  was  a  job,  but 
she  knew  her  business.  William  gave  her  half  a 
dollar,  the  first  sizable  tip  he  had  ever  laid  down. 
The  girl  looked  at  the  coin,  then  up  at  William, 
puzzled.  The  red  hair,  the  freckles,  and  the  cellu- 
loid collar  did  not  dovetail  with  such  prodigality. 

27 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"On  the  level,  have  you  been  left  some  money?" 

"  Honest  as  the  day  is  long.  Not  enough  to 
buy  lobsters  every  night,  but  enough  for  my  uses. 
And  some  day,  according  to  the  magazine  there, 
I'm  coming  back  from  a  long  voyage  and  marry 
you." 

"On  your  way,  Aloysius!  I  don't  look  like  a 
girl  who  would  marry  for  money,  do  I?" 

"If  I  wasn't  afraid  the  dye  'd  leak  through  this 
bean  of  mine,  I'd  go  and  have  it  dyed  purple. 
Say,  what's  all  this  noise  about  red  hair,  anyhow?" 

' '  Don't  ask  me.  Personally  I  ain't  got  anything 
against  it.  But  I  never  saw  a  man  with  red  hair 
that  wasn't  always  looking  for  trouble  and  finding 
it." 

"It's  tough  to  be  Irish." 

"Irish?  Why,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it! 
Well,  good  luck,  and  keep  away  from  the  bright 
lights." 

"The  same  to  you,  only  more  so;"  and  William 
left  the  shop. 

"Hey,  Nellie,  who's  the  chrysanthemum?" 

"Was  that  Reginald?" 

The  object  of  these  kindly  attentions  held  up 
the  half-dollar. 

"Did  he  forget  his  change?" 

"What's  his  home  town— Troy?" 

"Aw,  you  girls  make  me  weary!  You  can't  tell 
a  real  man  from  a  tailor's  dummy,  take  it  from 
me,  free  of  charge."  Nellie  took  her  gum  from 
under  the  table.  "He  may  have  red  hair,  but 
he  beats  Mike  the  baggage-man  for  shoulders." 

28 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Mebbe  that's  what  he  is,  a  trunk-hop." 

The  manageress  in  charge  intervened.  "You 
girls  lay  off  that  kidding." 

From  then  on  it  became  a  series  of  sudden 
chuckles  with  William.  These  broke  out  as  he 
walked  the  streets,  as  he  ate  his  beefsteak  lunch, 
as  he  idled  an  hour  at  a  movie,  as,  later,  he  took 
the  tube.  Out  of  a  perfectly  sober  countenance 
they  rumbled,  stirred  into  life,  now  at  the  sight 
of  his  hands,  now  at  the  feel  of  the  crisp  receipt  in 
his  inside  pocket.  For  all  that  he  chuckled  over 
them,  his  hands  were  a  source  of  real  embarrass- 
ment. He  was  afraid  to  put  them  in  his  pockets, 
to  touch  the  evening  papers,  to  hang  on  the  Sub- 
way strap.  He  was  also  certain  that  everybody 
noticed  the  discrepancy  between  his  nails  and  his 
general  outfit. 

"A  celluloid  collar  and  ten  pink  nails !  What  do 
you  know  about  that,  Isobel?  If  I  went  over  to 
the  engine-house  to-night,  the  boys  'd  drop  dead." 

Of  course  he  told  his  landlady  all  about  his 
marvelous  windfall,  that  he  was  going  on  a  trip 
around  the  world,  and  all  that.  She  cackled  over 
him  like  a  hen  that  discovers  a  pheasant  in  her 
brood. 

"Willie  Grogan,  an'  you  stand  there  tellin'  th* 
likes  o'  that  t'  me!" 

"Nix,  mother,  I'm  giving  it  to  you  straight. 
Look  at  this!"  He  showed  her  his  bank-book. 
The  Widow  Hanlon  gasped  when  she  saw  those 
noble  five  figures. 

"God  bless  me,  it's  true!  'Tis  glad  I  am  for 
29 


your  luck,  boy.  My,  an*  you'll  be  wearin'  dress- 
suits  an'  patent-lither  an'  passin'  your  ol'  friends 
on  th'  street.  Well,  you  were  always  a  good  boy. 
You'll  not  be  leavin'?" 

' '  Not  on  your  tin-type !  This  '11  be  my  hangout 
for  a  long  time  to  come.  But,  gee!  I  sure  forgot 
about  the  dress-suit  stuff.  I'll  see  to  that  to- 
morrow. Anyhow,  this  rubber  collar  is  headed  for 
the  ash-can.  I  never  thought,  with  this  topknot 
of  mine,  that  I  might  set  fire  to  it — eh,  mother? 
And  mum's  the  word  to  the  rest  of  the  bunch. 
I'm  hungry  and  don't  want  to  answer  questions. 
Whadjuh  got  for  supper?" 

"Corn'  beef  an'  cabbige." 

"Lead  me  to  it!" 

The  whole  house  reeked  with  the  odor  of  boiled 
cabbage;  but  William  was  used  to  it.  He  knew 
that  he  was  never  going  to  play  the  snob;  he  was 
going  through  life  simple  and  unchanged  by  his 
good  fortune;  he  was  never  going  to  forget  the  old 
order  of  things,  the  plain,  homely  food,  the  plain, 
homely  people  who  shared  it  with  him.  I'll 
wager  he  found  more  relish  in  his  corned  beef  and 
cabbage  that  night  than  ever  Lucullus  found  in  his 
nightingales'  tongues. 

After  supper  he  went  to  the  home  of  his  employ- 
er. Mrs.  Dolan  was  ready  to  sell;  the  transfer 
could  be  made  on  the  morrow.  This  news  de- 
lighted William.  But  he  did  not  tell  Burns  about 
his  visit  to  Cook's.  He  thought  it  wiser  to  say 
nothing  until  after  the  transfer  was  drawn  up 
and  signed.  Somewhere  around  eleven  he  started 

30 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

for  home  afoot.  His  boarding-house  was  only 
a  mile  away,  and  walking  was  always  good  on 
summer  nights. 

Along  his  route  on  one  of  the  streets  which  cut 
Broadway,  there  was  a  restaurant  famed  for  its 
quiet  and  remoteness  from  the  town's  glitter. 
William  knew  something  about  it.  He  had  passed 
it  dozens  of  times.  Other  men's  wives  and  other 
wives'  husbands  patronized  this  restaurant,  so 
it  was  said. 

William  was  perhaps  within  ten  feet  of  the  res- 
taurant when  he  paused.  Through  the  painted 
screened  windows  came  the  strange  surging  melo- 
dies of  a  Magyar  rhapsody.  William  loved  music; 
even  the  thin  pinkapank  of  the  hurdy-gurdies 
held  charm  for  him.  As  he  listened  to  this  wild 
gipsy  music  it  seemed  as  though  his  senses  had 
been  gathered  up  and  swept  into  the  gipsy  hills 
themselves,  through  the  forests  on  the  forewings 
of  a  storm,  to  be  caught  by  the  tempest  itself  and 
swirled,  buffeted,  smothered,  finally  to  be  let 
down  gently  into  the  succeeding  calm;  all  as  elusive 
as  the  shadows  which  tumble  over  the  pebbled 
floor  of  a  brook. 

"Gee!  but  that  was  great!"  he  murmured,  lean- 
ing against  the  lamp-post.  He  hoped  there  might 
be  more  of  it. 

Suddenly  the  upper  door  opened  and  a  young 
woman  came  hurriedly  down  the  steps.  The 
moment  she  reached  the  sidewalk  she  started  off 
at  a  brisk  run.  Her  hat  obscured  her  features. 
William  got  a  whiff  of  lavender  as  she  whisked 

31 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

by.  Had  hubby  turned  up?  he  wondered,  cyn- 
ically. 

As  a  rule  William  always  walked  on.  He  never 
meddled  with  an  affair  he  knew  nothing  about, 
being  a  New-Yorker.  To-night,  however,  he  was 
in  a  mischievous  mood.  He'd  see  what  the  game 
was. 

A  man  in  evening  dress  came  out,  looked  east 
and  west,  and  ran  down  to  the  sidewalk.  He  did 
not  pursue  the  young  woman,  for  the  very  reason 
that  William  stood  in  his  way. 

"Nothing  doing,  bo,"  he  said,  quietly.  "When 
a  young  lady  hits  into  the  bleachers  like  that,^she's 
off  for  the  home-plate." 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?     Get  out  of  my  way." 

"Beat  it.  I  don't  like  your  accent.  Handsome- 
Is." 

"Will  you  stand  aside?     Or,  is  this  a  hold-up?" 

"Ye-ah,  it's  a  kind  of  a  hold-up.  But  what  are 
you  doing  off  your  beat?  What's  the  matter  with 
old  Forty-second  Street  stuff?  Ain't  they  young 
enough?" 

"Why,  damn  your  impudence.  .  .  ." 

"Sir  Hurlbert,  unsay  them  cruel  woids."  Sud- 
denly the  banter  left  William's  voice.  "Listen 
to  me.  That  young  girl  was  running  away  from 
you;  I  don't  need  any  inside  information  to  get 
that.  It's  a  hunch.  Now,  there's  just  two  things 
on  the  card.  Either  you  sashay  back  to  your 
bucket  of  suds  or  you  take  the  flat  of  my  lily- 
white  on  your  kazoozle.  Are  you  wise?" 

Had  the  stranger  spoken  gruffly  that  the  young 
32 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

woman  under  discussion  was  his  wife,  William 
would'  have  side-stepped  the  issue  and  gone  on. 
But  the  hesitance,  the  indecision,  were  enough  to 
convince  William  that  this  was  an  old  story. 

"Well,  bo?" 

The  man  shrugged,  turned  abruptly,  and  re- 
entered  the  restaurant. 

"A  good  hunch,"  said  William,  eying  the  door 
speculatively.  "Well,  Bill,  let's  waltz." 

And  waltz  he  did.  Not  that  he  was  afraid,  but 
these  upper  Broadway  swells  had  a  way  of  con- 
vincing the  police  that  the  hoi  polloi  (which  in- 
cluded William)  were  eternally  in  the  wrong,  no 
matter  what  the  argument  might  be,  and  he  ap- 
preciated the  weakness  of  his  case.  The  girl  had 
disappeared,  and  it  was  up  to  him  to  follow  her 
example. 

His  "Haw-haw!"  suddenly  broke  the  silence  in 
the  deserted  street.  A  seven-dollar  meerschaum 
and  a  trip  around  the  world ! 

"And  ten  pink  nails,  Isobel!  The  luck  of  the 
Irish." 


CHAPTER  III 

AFTER  a  few  blocks  he  let  down  his  stride  to 
an  amble  and  began  his  favorite  pastime — 
building  castles.  And  always  there  was  a  garden, 
a  wife,  and  a  couple  of  kids.  For  why  should  he 
build  castles  but  for  these?  He  looked  up  at  the 
spangled  canopy  of  the  night.  He  saw  two  little 
brown  shoes  step  lightly  from  star  to  star',  one- 
two-three,  and  they  were  gone.  His  school- 
teacher; there  was  the  girl  for  you;  no  nonsense 
about  her,  always  on  the  job.  Where  did  she  go 
on  her  vacations  ?  And  what  had  really  restrained 
him  from  going  up  into  the  street  just  once  for  a 
peek  at  her?  Perhaps  it  was  the  fear  that  his 
fatal  beauty  would  have  blasted  her  where  she 
stood.  Oh,  well ;  perhaps  the  Lord  had  made  the 
majority  of  human  beings  homely  so  that  some 
real  work  could  be  done.  Handsome-Is  was  al- 
ways crawling  under  the  job,  watching  the  clock, 
and  beating  it  five  minutes  before  closing  hour. 

His  thought  veered  suddenly  into  another 
channel.  The  picture  of  the  young  woman  in 
flight  returned. 

Poor,  silly  little  butterflies,  didn't  they  have 
any  sense?  Wasn't  there  anybody  to  look  after 
them  and  warn  them  of  the  pitfalls?  Or  were 

34 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

most  of  them  alone  in  the  world?  William  cogi- 
tated seriously.  He  was  tolerably  familiar  with 
the  street  scenes  at  night.  He  knew  the  breed, 
too,  of  the  man  with  whom  he  had  just  clashed. 
Fine  manners,  sympathy,  patience,  money,  and 
good  looks,  and  hearts  as  black  as  ink-pots;  and 
the  silly  little  fools  thought  they  saw  the  golden 
knight.  Most  of  these  children  came  in  from  the 
country  and  the  small  cities,  to  become  great 
actresses,  musicians,  painters.  William  wondered 
how  many  of  them  were  able  to  live  at  all.  It 
always  seemed  that  when  they  were  loneliest,  old 
Cow-Hoof  came  around  the  corner  to  cheer  them 
up. 

1 '  And  they  fall  for  guys  like  that, ' '  he  murmured. 
He  couldn't  understand.  "They  wouldn't  look  at 
me  through  a  telescope,  not  if  I  had  diamonds  on 
both  hands.  It's  looks,  that's  what  gets  'em; 
looks,  soft-soap.  They  run  into  every  kind  of 
danger  with  blinders  on.  They  ain't  any  of  'em 
bad,  just  curious  and  lonesome.  Aw,  hell!" 

William  never  dwelt  long  upon  any  subject, 
especially  if  it  were  distasteful.  He  began  to 
chuckle.  Perhaps  this  was  the  fatal  hour,  accord- 
ing to  that  clairvoyant.  A  few  nights  since  he 
and  some  of  the  engine-house  boys  off  duty  had 
paid  a  visit  to  a  near-by  clairvoyant  for  the  lark 
of  it.  The  signs  of  his  horoscope  had  been  por- 
tentous (at  fifty  cents);  there  would  be  some 
money  (they  never  said  how  much,  being  conserva- 
tive), and  the  influence  of  the  planets  Venus  and 
Mars  would  soon  be  felt.  Well,  he  had  the  money 

35 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

all  right;  he  was  now  ready  for  both  Venus  and 
Mars,  i  Mars  was  all  right ;  he  had  been  born  un- 
der that  planet,  no  doubt,  been  scrapping  'as  far 
back  as  he  could  remember.  Any  clairvoyant 
with  a  true  eye  for  business  could  get  away  with 
that  line  of  talk  after  one  glance  at  his  topknot. 
But  this  Venus  stuff  was  to  laugh;  pure  bunk. 
And,  my,  my!  the  poor  simps  who  went  to  clair- 
voyants and  believed  in  'em.  Ye-ah! 

As  he  entered  his  room,  murmuring  something 
about  "the  new-mown  hay  for  his,"  he  sniffed  the 
boiled  cabbage.  He  smacked  his  lips  over  the 
recollection  of  his  dinner.  Nobody  could  cook 
corned  beef  and  cabbage  like  Ma  Hanlon. 

I've  often  wondered  if  Bayard,  or  Quixote,  or 
Roland  ate  New  England  dinners  on  Thursdays. 
William  generally  did. 

At  four  o'clock  the  following  afternoon  William 
Grogan  signed  his  name  to  certain  documents  and 
thereupon  became  a  legal  member  of  the  firm  of 
Burns,  Dolan  &  Co. 

"And  now,  partner,  what's  on  the  program?" 
asked  Burns,  as  he  and  William  sat  down  before 
their  beer  in  the  little  saloon  where  Burns  usually 
ate  his  lunches. 

"Well,"  said  William,  after  some  deliberation, 
"I'm  going  to  take  a  vacation." 

"Sure.  What  are  you  going  to  do — go  fish- 
ing?" 

"Nope.  I'm  going  around  the  world,  Mr. 
Burns." 

"Huh?     What  are  you  giving  me?" 
36 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH      - 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  You  see,  it's  like  this. 
I've  got  to  go  to  get  the  idea  out  of  my  coco.  My 
whole  soul's  been  longing  for  steamboats  and 
trains  and  the  likes  since  I  was  a  kid.  Got  to  go. 
If  I  take  the  trip  while  I'm  young  I'll  get  all  there 
is  in  it.  This  talk  about  doing  these  things  when 
you've  retired  from  business  is  all  bull  con.  You 
know  it  just  as  well  as  I  do.  I  expect  to  be  gone 
six  months.  When  I  come  back  I'll  be  on  the  job 
for  keeps.  Now  shoot." 

"Son,  you've  knocked  the  breath  out  of  me. 
You  hiking  around  the  globe,  seeing  the  sights, 
living  in  hotels  and  ships,  and  coming  back  with 
your  grip  covered  with  labels!  Well,  that's 
Irish  enough  for  anybody.  You're  the  doctor, 
Bill.  I've  taken  care  of  Mrs.  Dolan's  money  for 
six  years;  I  guess  I  can  take  care  of  yours  for  six 
months.  You're  a  sly  ruffian,  though.  You  wait 
until  you're  in  the  firm  before  you  shoot  this  stuff. 
All  right;  go  as  far  as  you  like.  Business  is  good. 
And  when  you  come  back,  get  married.  It  takes  a 
woman  to  keep  the  dollars  from  running  wild. 
How  much  are  you  going  to  take  with  you?" 

"Three  thousand.  That  '11  leave  about  five 
roosting  in  the  bank.  I  want  to  ride  the  ele- 
phants; and,  believe  me,  they'll  be  the  highest 
I  can  find." 

"Well,  here's  luck.  But  if  you  come  back  with 
any  of  that  refined  stuff,  I'll  force  you  out  of  the 
shop." 

There  followed  a  mild  orgy  in  the  shops  of  the 
haberdasher,  the  tailor,  and  the  shoemaker;  and 

37 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

while  William's  taste  ran  strongly  to  colors,  he 
accepted  the  advice  of  the  outfitters  and  battened 
down  the  hatches  over  his  desires.  He  had  never 
dreamed  that  there  was  so  much  fun  in  the  world. 

Long  before  the  day  of  sailing  his  face  became 
familiar  to  the  clerks  in  Cook's.  His  questions 
ate  up  all  their  handy  folders  and  circulars.  The 
day  before  the  departure  he  came  in,  bubbling 
with  a  fresh  set  of  questions.  He  had  forgotten  all 
about  "renting  "  an  elephant.  What  were  current 
prices  for  pachyderms  by  the  mile?  While  the 
clerk  was  explaining  to  him  that  the  Bombay 
office  would  have  to  take  charge  of  that,  William 
heard  a  woman's  voice  at  his  elbow.  He  turned. 
He  never  forgot  faces.  After  a  moment's  digging, 
he  recognized  the  young  woman  as  the  one  to 
whom  he  had  spoken  that  memorable  night  at  the 
movie.  He  became  interested  at  once. 

She  was  pretty,  but  her  face  was  pale  and  drawn, 
and  there  were  dark  shadows  under  her  eyes. 

"What  is  the  next  sailing  to  Naples?" 

"Saturday." 

"Nothing  before?" 

"The  Ajax  sails  to-morrow  at  two.  It's  a  trip 
around  the  world.  Perhaps  I  can  find  you  a  berth 
on  that."  The  clerk  investigated.  Presently  he 
informed  her:  "We  can  put  you  in  247  with  two 
old  ladies.  The  lounge.  That's  the  best  we  can 
do  prior  to  Saturday.  Second-class  is  all  gone." 

"A  trip  around  the  world,"  she  mused.  "How 
much  would  that  be  and  how  long  the  trip  ?" 

The  clerk  named  both  price  and  time. 
38 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Very  well;  I'll  take  that." 

"To-morrow,  between  two  and  three;  steam- 
ship Ajax,  tour  of  the  world,  San  Francisco  in 
February,"  droned  the  clerk. 

The  young  woman  pushed  a  flat  packet  of  bills 
across  the  counter.  These  bills  had  the  appear- 
ance of  having  dwelt  in  idleness  for  long.  William 
saw  her  thrust  the  ticket  into  her  hand-bag. 
What  amazed  him  was  that  she  did  not  give  the 
ticket  a  single  scrutiny.  She  slipped  the  hand-bag 
over  her  arm  and  departed. 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that?"  said 
William  to  the  world  at  large. 

"Queer  case,"  volunteered  the  clerk  who  had 
served  the  young  woman.  "All  over  in  fifteen 
minutes  by  the  clock.  It  generally  takes  a  woman 
six  months  to  decide  when  she  wants  to  go  some- 
where. She  starts  for  Naples  and  goes  around  the 
world!" 

"What's  her  name?"  asked  William. 

"Jones,  the  eternal  Jones;  and  I  had  an  idea 
that  it  was  going  to  be  Jones.  A  hundred  thou- 
sand Joneses  come  in  here  during  the  year,  and 
only  about  ten  per  cent,  are  Joneses.  She  looked 
to  me  to  be  running  away  from  something  or  some 
one.  A  queer  lot  come  in  here.  Well,  it's  all  in 
a  day's  work.  Pretty,  too.  Wager  these  bills 
came  out  of  the  bottom  of  a  trunk."  The  clerk 
strode  off  toward  the  cashier's  grille. 

"Say,"  said  William  to  his  own  clerk,  "that 
young  woman  reminds  me  of  some  one." 

"Who?" 
4  39 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Me.  It  took  me  only  twelve  minutes  to 
say  'Good-by,  Dolly  Gray,  I  must  leave  you'. 
Huh?" 

The  clerk  laughed. 

"So  I  saddle  the  elephant  in  Bombay?  Ye-ah. 
And  say,  have  you  got  me  labeled  with  the  queer 
ones?" 

"No,  Mr.  Grogan."  The  clerk  laughed  again. 
"You're  the  real  thing;  and  I  wish  I  were  in 
your  shoes.  Everybody  perks  up  when  you 
drop  in." 

William  pocketed  his  folder  on  Burma  and 
departed.  He  found  that  he  could  not  put  com- 
pletely from  his  mind  the  thought  of  the  young 
woman.  Her  face  haunted  him  persistently. 
Was  she  running  away  from  her  husband?  Was 
there  a  Handsome-Is  in  the  background  some- 
where? Like  as  not.  William,  it  has  already  been 
remarked,  retained  few  illusions ;  and  he  generally 
drew  upon  hard  facts  when  in  doubt.  He  never 
picked  up  a  newspaper  these  benighted  times  that 
something  of  this  sort  wasn't  going  on.  Wives 
were  eternally  running  away  from  husbands,  who 
didn't  always  bother  to  pursue  them.  The  causes 
were  as  thick  as  the  sparrows  in  the  Park.  Mis- 
mated;  the  devil  did  a  good  job  there,  was  Wil- 
liam's opinion.  The  hullabaloo  of  a  Fifth  Avenue 
wedding,  money  and  caste,  they  generally  came 
to  this,  flight  and  scandal.  Not  that  he  was  par- 
ticularly prejudiced  against  the  rich ;  but  they  set 
a  mighty  bad  example  for  the  poor,  who  were 
more  or  less  imitative,  like  the  apes. 

40 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Wednesday  came.  William  got  up  before  dawn 
so  as  to  be  thoroughly  awake  when  the  day  began. 
He  had  a  lot  of  things  to  do.  First  and  foremost, 
he  had  to  pass  away  the  time.  He  was  for  all  the 
world  like  you  and  I  were  those  bygone  Christ- 
mases  and  Fourth-of -Julys;  we  never  had  any 
candy  or  fireworks  left  for  the  afternoon  and  eve- 
ning. He  bubbled  with  life.  He  had  health  and 
wealth  and  youth.  And  if  the  devil  had  come 
along  just  then  and  offered  mere  beauty  in  ex- 
change for  a  tithe  of  health  or  wealth  or  youth, 
William  would  have  seized  him  by  the  scruff  of  his 
neck  and  flung  him  into  the  alley. 

I  sha'n't  attempt  to  chronicle  all  the  happy, 
foolish  things  he  did  that  marvelous  morning. 
Among  other  things  he  visited  the  shop  and  bade 
good-by  to  every  one.  The  little  bookkeeper 
sniveled  openly.  She  never  expected  to  see  Wil- 
liam Grogan  again.  If  he  wasn't  eaten  by  sharks, 
he  would  fall  into  the  hands  of  cannibals.  Burns 
poohhooed  this  idea;  all  Bill  had  to  do  was  to  keep 
his  eye  on  his  cash.  There  were  worse  sharks  out 
of  water  than  in  it. 

At  one  o'clock  William  went  aboard.  He  saw 
his  steamer  trunk  and  grips  safely  stowed  away  in 
his  cabin,  which  he  was  to  share  with  two  others  as 
yet  unknown.  The  little  card  at  the  left  of  the 
door  read : 

Mr.  Grogan. 

Mr.  Greenwood. 

Mr.  Henrik  Clausen. 

He  hoped  that  they  were  neither  professional 
41 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

gamblers  nor  whisky  merchants;  outside  of  that 
he  didn't  care  what  they  were. 

He  went  on  deck  again  and  began  to  explore. 
By  two  o'clock  he  had  been  everywhere  except 
in  the  stoke-hole,  and  he  was  saving  that  against 
some  rainy  day.  He  was  unobtrusive;  and  the 
busy  officers  he  quizzed  understood  that  his 
interest  was  purely  legitimate,  though  somewhat 
inopportune.  There  was  something  of  the  eager 
boy  in  William,  despite  his  cynical  outlook.  The 
great  steel  canon,  which  went  down  to  the  very 
keel  of  the  ship,  fascinated  him  more  than  anything 
else.  The  chief  engineer  was  Irish;  so  William 
told  him  the  history  of  his  life  and  clung  to  him  as 
long  as  he  could. 

It  is  a  fine  thing  to  go  on  a  voyage  of  discovery, 
for  the  true  pleasures  of  life  are  not  to  be  found  in 
recurrences.  And  to  William,  what  marvelous 
discoveries  were  on  the  threshold,  waiting  to  be 
unfolded  before  his 'eyes!  Strange  seas,  strange 
lands,  strange  peoples;  and,  above  all,  there  was 
that  elephant  with  the  silk-and-spangle  cupola  or 
thingumy  on  his  back.  There  was,  as  you  may 
readily  believe,  no  corner  in  his  thoughts  given 
over  to  a  longing  to  see  the  Roman  Forum,  or  the 
Greek  Parthenon,  or  Michelangelo,  or  Rafael,  or 
Tiziano.  I  may  as  well  confess  right  here  and 
now  and  have  done  with  it:  William  never  went 
into  ecstasies  over  the  wonders  of  antiquity. 

The  living  things,  the  quick,  not  the  dead, 
stirred  his  interest.  It  is  true  that  the  pyramids 
stunned  him;  but  this  was  due  to  his  appreciation 

42 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

of  the  tremendous  labor  involved  in  piling  those 
granite  blocks  one  upon  the  other  without  the  aid 
of  steam-hoists. 

At  length  he  went  down  into  the  huge  shed 
where  everything  was  bustle  and  seeming  confu- 
sion. Bale  after  bale  and  trunk  after  trunk  sailed 
skyward,  to  disappear  mysteriously  into  the  bow- 
els of  the  ship.  People  were  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
and  there  was  much  kissing  and  hand-shaking. 

William  suddenly  awoke  to  the  dismal  fact  that 
he  was  dreadfully  alone.  In  all  his  busy  years 
this  thought  had  never  before  come  home  to  him 
so  keenly.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  all  the  wide 
world  who  really  cared  what  became  of  him,  where 
he  went,  what  he  did,  or  how  he  died.  Burns  was 
all  right,  and  so  were  the  boys  over  at  the  engine- 
house,  but  they  lacked  something.  He  had  no 
regret  in  leaving  them;  he  would  have  no  real 
joy  in  returning  to  them.  He  eyed  with  envy 
the  noisy,  excited  groups  of  the  happy  family 
(see  Cook's  folders).  These  groups  were  made  up 
of  pilgrims  coming  down  from  small  cities,  country 
towns,  farms,  West  and  Middle  West.  They  were 
making  the  trip  in  dozens  and  double-dozens;  and 
shortly  they  would  build  little  glass-topped  walls 
around  themselves,  and  woe  betide  the  tres- 
passer, especially  if  he  happened  to  be  a  red- 
headed, lonesome  guy  named  William  Grogan. 

He  fell  back  upon  his  innate  philosophy.  All  his 
life  he  had  been  jogging  along  on  his  own.  Why 
worry  over  this  bunch  of  male  and  female  fossils? 
He  was  here  to  see  the  world ;  and  if  he  made  any 

43 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

friendships  these  would  be  by-products  purely. 
After  all,  old  Mother  Hanlon  would  be  glad  to  see 
him  back.  And  wouldn't  the  rest  of  the  bunch  sit 
up  and  take  notice  when  he  began  to  gab-fest! 
"When  I  was  in  Hong-Kong  I  licked  four  chinks 
one  night."  Think  of  starting  the  fire  in  that  off- 
hand manner! 

All  at  once  he  remembered  why  he  had  gone 
down  into  the  shed  and  taken  his  place  by  the 
gang-plank.  He  wanted  to  see  if  that  girl  came 
on  board  alone.  He  hoped  she  would.  She  looked 
too  nice  to  be  mixed  up  in  anything  shady.  Funny 
thing,  he  mused,  how  you  could  spot  a  woman  who 
was  off -color.  You  couldn't  give  your  reasons; 
there  wasn't  any  way  of  explaining  it;  you  just 
knew,  that  was  all.  This  girl  didn't  look  the  part, 
and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 

She  came  into  view  at  length.  He  sighed 
relievedly.  There  was  no  one  with  her.  Lone- 
some kind  like  himself.  She  walked  confidently 
to  the  gang-plank,  looking  neither  right  nor  left. 
Her  face  was  lighted  by  subdued  eagerness;  there 
was  neither  anxiety  in  her  eyes  nor  dissatisfaction 
on  her  lips.  William  dropped  in  behind  her, 
rather  automatically. 

A  well-dressed  man,  a  fat  suit-case  in  each  hand, 
crowded  past  him  rudely.  William  stretched  out  a 
detaining  hand,  none  the  less  powerful  because  the 
nails  shone  pinkly. 

"Say,  bo,  why  the  unseemly  haste?" 

"Beg  pardon!"  mumbled  the  offender,  none  too 
politely,  as  he  wrenched  himself  loose  and  went  on. 

44 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Well,  if  that  guy's  with  us,"  thought  William, 
"how  we're  going  to  love  each  other  by  the  time 
we  get  to  Bombay !  For  a  nickel.  ..." 

M-m-m-m !  boomed  the  whistle.  William  ducked 
instinctively,  and  hurried  on  board. 

"Nothing  the  matter  with  the  old  lady's  lungs. 
That  was  some  toot !  Well,  I  guess  this  is  good-by 
to  little  New  York.  See  you  later!" 

As  the  ship  drew  out  into  the  river  he  stood  in 
the  waist,  watching  the  men  close  the  hatches. 
He  chanced  to  look  up  toward  the  promenade- 
deck.  A  young  woman  was  in  the  act  of  crossing 
from  starboard  to  port.  The  first  thing  that  came 
into  his  range  of  vision  was  a  pair  of  twinkling 
tan  shoes.  This  range  of  vision,  be  it  noted,  was 
identical  to  that  he  had  from  his  cellar  window. 
His  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  His  school-teacher 
was  on  board ! 


CHAPTER  IV 

WILLIAM  was  never  able  to  explain  with  any 
lucidity  why  he  leaped  so  abruptly  to  such  a 
conclusion.  He  just  knew,  that  was  all.  He  had 
seen  those  feet  go  past  his  cellar  window  too  many 
times  to  have  the  slightest  doubt  of  their  identity. 

He  had  not  seen  her  face,  the  railing  having  cut 
across  that  and  obscured  it.  But  there  was  no 
reason  on  earth  why  he  shouldn't  see  the  face  now, 
after  waiting  for  three  years.  So  he  sprang  up 
the  ladder,  thrilling  in  every  pulse.  There  she 
was,  leaning  against  the  port  rail,  staring  westward 
at  the  pearly  smudge  hanging  over  the  receding 
city.  William  had  never  heard  of  Medusa,  nor  the 
shield  of  Perseus.  He  was,  nevertheless,  turned 
into  stone  for  two  consecutive  minutes.  There 
is  nothing  gentle  or  gradual  about  disillusion;  it 
is  a  blow,  swift  and  hurtful.  William  stood  up 
under  it  passably  well,  however. 

Yonder  was  his  school-teacher,  without  doubt; 
but  she  was  also  the  young  woman  he  had  sat 
beside  at  the  movie  and  whom  he  had  mentally 
tangled  up  with  runaway  wives  and  all  that. 
Finding  his  dream  slipping  from  him,  he  made 
frantic  efforts  to  catch  hold  and  retain  some  of  it. 
He  simply  could  not  let  it  go  all  at  once.  For 

46 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

three  years  he  had  endued  yonder  girl  with  the 
attributes  which  would  belong,  did  such  beings 
exist,  to  a  demi-angel;  and  thus  it  was  not  human- 
ly possible  to  let  so  fine  a  thing  go  to  smash  without 
making  a  fight  for  it. 

So  he  began  to  mobilize  excuses.  If  she  was  a 
runaway  wife,  then  the  husband  was  a  brute;  if 
there  was  a  Handsome-Is  in  the  woodpile,  then 
he  had  been  too  clever  for  her;  and  so  on  and  so 
forth.  He  reached  around  blindly  for  other 
straws.  She  might  be  the  daughter  of  a  rich  man, 
running  away  to  avoid  marrying  the  father's 
favored  suitor.  This  idea  pleased  him  mightily; 
it  restored  his  belief  in  his  ability  to  judge  humans, 
gave  him  a  foothold  on  earth  again. 

Without  his  appreciating  the  fact,  William  had 
fallen  in  love  with  a  shadow;  and  the  unexpected 
appearance  of  the  substance  had  thrown  him  off 
his  balance. 

He  was  perhaps  more  than  normally  romantic; 
probably  by  this  time  you  have  guessed  it.  Yet, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  scales,  there  was  good 
ballast  in  every-day  common  sense.  But  there 
was  in  him  a  something  latent,  stronger  by  far 
than  romance  or  common  sense;  we  call  it  super- 
stition. Trust  the  Irishman  to  have  this  kink  in 
his  cosmos.  In  William  it  had  been  a  negligible 
quantity  for  a  long  time,  but  it  cracked  its  shell 
at  this  moment  and  fluttered  forth.  This  wasn't 
any  ordinary  accident,  he  reasoned;  something 
was  meant  by  it.  For  three  long  years  he  had 
dreamed  about  this  girl,  and  there  she  was,  half  a 

47 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

dozen  strides  away.  So  William's  superstition 
cried  out  that  the  Lord  had  put  her  there  not  with- 
out some  definite  purpose  concerning  one  William 
Grogan.  How  the  Lord  intended  him  to  act  he 
could  not  surmise,  but  he  was  determined  to  hang 
around  on  the  job  until  the  call  came. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  recognized  a  real 
barrier.  Here  was  a  mixed-up  family,  bound  to- 
gether by  a  curious  set  of  ties  for  six  months.  In 
a  week  or  so,  he  cynically  argued,  everybody  would 
know  everybody  else,  family  histories  and  so 
forth.  And  yet  he  hadn't  the  nerve  to  go  over 
and  speak  to  the  girl.  Why?  Was  it  something 
in  the  fine  profile,  something  in  its  expression  that 
spoke  of  secret  sorrow?  He  could  not  analyze 
what  it  was,  but  he  knew,  then  and  there,  that  he 
would  never  be  able  to  speak  to  her  with  the  free- 
dom he  had  previously  used  toward  typewriter- 
girls,  shop-girls,  girls  in  the  lunch-rooms,  and  the 
girl  in  the  manicure-shop. 

He  turned  on  his  heels,  fuming  at  both  his  lack 
of  courage  and  this  invisible  barrier.  He  hated 
red  hair  and  freckles.  He  looked  at  his  hands. 
Well,  they  weren't  so  bad,  even  if  they  were  as 
large  as  hams.  The  size  of  his  feet  had  always 
troubled  him;  but  the  Lord  knew  they  had  to  be 
big  to  carry  around  his  weight.  The  inventory 
was  highly  unsatisfactory. 

For  more  than  an  hour  he  wandered  about  the 
decks.  He  was  like  a  friendly  outcast  dog, 
striving  to  catch  some  one's  eye  and  invariably 
failing.  He  was  all  alone.  Most  of  the  tourists 

48 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

were  gathered  in  groups,  chattering  and  gabbling 
over  red-covered  volumes  which  later  he  found 
to  be  the  works  of  an  eminent  author  by  the 
name  of  Baedeker.  Once  upon  a  time,  urged 
by  Mrs.  Burns,  wife  of  his  partner,  William  had 
been  inveigled  into  a  revival  meeting.  These 
tourists  looked  like  a  revival  meeting  turned 
loose. 

He  sat  down  in  a  steamer  chair,  and  he  had  no 
more  than  stretched  out  his  legs  comfortably  when 
he  was  politely  requested  to  vacate. 

"My  chair,  if  you  please." 

"Oh!"  William  got  up  and  tried  another,  with 
the  same  result.  "Say,  where  do  you  get  these 
bedsteads?"  he  asked,  with  strained  affability. 

"The  deck  steward  will  rent  you  one,  sir,"  he 
was  crisply  informed. 

Once  more  William  began  his  wanderings.  He 
was  little  brother  to  Ishmael.  Suddenly  he 
laughed.  They  were  all  trying  to  bluff  one  an- 
other that  they  were  old  travelers  or  the  most  im- 
portant people  from  their  home  towns.  All  pure 
bunk.  Wait  until  the  old  blue  lady  began  to 
heave;  a  lot  of  home-made  halos  would  go  back 
into  the  steamer  trunks. 

After  innocently  insulting  the  first  and  second 
officers,  the  chief  steward,  and  the  purser,  William 
finally  located  the  deck  steward  and  demanded  a 
chair.  It  was  given  to  him  abaft  the  deck- 
houses amid  a  forest  of  ventilators  and  at  the  side 
of  a  huge  coil  of  tarry-smelling  rope. 

"Say,  haven't  you  got  anything  down  nearer 
49 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

the  orchestra?  I  might  as  well  be  in  the  middle 
of  Iowa." 

"Sorry,  sir;  but  all  the  other  places  were  spoken 
for  weeks  ago." 

William  sat  down  and  counted  the  ventilators, 
booms,  guy-ropes,  and  ladders.  He  was  learning. 
He  had  until  this  black  hour  believed  that  the 
chairs  went  along  with  the  ticket.  All  right;  if 
the  cinders  didn't  bury  him  before  they  reached 
Naples,  he'd  find  another  spot.  Beyond  the  coil 
of  rope  was  another  chair  upon  which  lay  a  rug, 
a  pillow,  and  some  novels.  Some  one  was  going 
to  share  the  desert  with  him.  He  stretched  out 
his  legs,  assured  that  this  time  he  would  not  be 
molested.  Well,  here  he  was,  William  Grogan, 
sailing  toward  his  great  dream — elephants  and 
camels  and  cocoanuts  by  hand.  Would  there  be 
any  great  adventures,  the  kind  he  had  read  about  ? 
Would  they  be  shipwrecked  and  cast  upon  a  desert 
island,  with  a  tool-chest,  a  box  of  cigars,  and  a 
compass?  Not  in  a  million  years.  He  would 
see  the  sights,  spend  a  little  money,  and  go  home. 
There  wouldn't  be  any  boob  to  rescue  from  cruel 
gamblers;  not  on  a  trip  like  this.  Besides,  that 
was  one  of  his  rules,  never  to  interfere  with  a  guy 
who  wanted  to  part  with  his  money.  And  there 
wouldn't  be  any  rescuing  his  school-teacher, 
either;  no  such  luck. 

For  a  while  he  watched  the  stern — what  he 
could  see  of  it — go  up  suddenly,  hang  for  a  space  in 
midair,  then  drop  like  a  plummet.  By  and  by  he 
dozed.  He  had  gone  blue-fishing  several  times 

50 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

during  rough  weather,  and  his  diaphragm  had 
suffered  no  undue  activities  therefrom.  In  fact, 
he  was  one  of  those  fortunate  individuals  who  are 
born  good  sailors. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  westering  sun  getting 
between  some  of  the  ventilators  and  striking  full 
into  his  eyes.  He  sat  up  and  blinked,  looked  at 
his  watch — it  was  five — and  glanced  at  the  other 
chair.  It  was  occupied.  Moreover,  it  was  occu- 
pied by  no  less  a  person  than  his  school-teacher. 
He  was  now  doubly  sure  that  the  mysterious  hand 
of  fate  was  in  all  this.  What  more  convincing 
sign  did  he  need  ? 

A  moment  later  the  sun  awoke  her  also. 

"Pretty  rocky  seats,"  ventured  William. 
"Wouldn't  you  like  me  to  hunt  up  a  better  place?" 

' '  No,  thanks ;  this  was  my  choice. ' '  She  picked 
up  a  book  and  began  to  turn  the  pages  suggestively. 

But  he  was  altogether  too  lonely  to  accept  the 
subtle  snub.  "This  is  all  new  stuff  to  me.  Never 
was  a  hundred  miles  out  of  New  York  before. 
But  I'm  a  regular  simp;  no  blankets,  no  books,  no 
nothing.  I  wasn't  hep  to  the  fact  that  you  had  to 
have  these  things.  I  thought  all  you  had  to  do 
was  to  turn  the  crank  and  start  her.  I  don't  even 
know  how  to  get  into  the  dining-room.  One 
thing,  though:  they've  bunked  me  with  a  couple 
of  ancient  mariners,  and  some  morning  I'll  be 
accused  of  hiding  the  cork  leg." 

She  smiled  absently,  and  riffied  the  pages  of  the 
book.  She  could  not  very  well  tell  him  outright 
that  she  did  not  care  to  talk. 

Si 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Say,  I'm  not  bothering  you,  am  I?"  he  asked, 
with  genuine  apprehension. 

"Indeed,  no." 

She  closed  the  book  resignedly  and  looked 
straight  into  William's  face.  Naturally  the  point 
of  focus  was  his  eye.  And  she  liked  the  pair  of 
them  instantly.  The  whites  were  as  blue-white 
as  skimmed  milk;  and  she  could  not  recollect 
seeing  anything  bluer  than  the  iris.  There  was 
something  at  once  rugged  and  comical  in  his 
features — the  pug-nose,  the  freckles,  the  shock  of 
red  hair,  and  the  outstanding  ears.  Immediately 
after  this  inventory  she  realized  that  the  ensemble 
was  vaguely  familiar. 

"Have  I  ever  met  you  before?" 

' '  Not  in  the  hand-shaking  sense.  But  I  spoke  to 
you  one  night  at  the  movie  just  out  of  Washington 
Square.  They  were  running  an  Egyptian  play; 
camels  coming  down  the  desert,  and  all  that  Los 
Angeles  stuff." 

"Oh  yes;  I  remember."  And  she  truly  did. 
This  was  the  young  man  who  wanted  to  see  the 
Orient.  And  here  he  was,  on  the  way.  She 
was  now  genuinely  interested.  This  ship  was  truly 
a  barge  of  dreams. 

"And,  say,"  went  on  William,  now  that  the  ice 
was  broken,  "you're  a  school-teacher  around  the 
corner  from — " 

"School-teacher?"  she  interrupted.  She  sat 
up,  her  eyes  wide;  and  there  was  a  vague  terror  in 
them.  William  saw  it,  and  a  bit  of  the  disillusion 
returned  to  sting  him.  "How  did  you  know 

52 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

that?"     She  had  phrased  and  spoken  the  question 
before  she  realized  that  it  was  a  tacit  admission. 

"Oh,  I  guessed  it,"  he  acknowledged.  "You 
see,  it's  like  this.  Every  morning  and  afternoon 
you  go  by  Burns,  Dolan  &  Co.'s  plumbing-shop, 
where  I  work.  I'm  in  the  cellar,  mostly." 

"In  the  cellar?"  she  repeated,  dazedly. 

"Ye-ah.  And  as  you  never  came  by  Saturdays 
I  took  it  that  you  were  a  teacher  around  the  cor- 
ner. I  never  saw  anything  but  your  feet — " 

"My  feet?"  She  was  growing  more  and  more 
bewildered.  Was  the  man  insane  ? 

"Maybe  I'm  bulling  the  story.  Anyhow,  it  was 
like  this. ' '  He  gained  confidence  as  he  went  along. 
The  terror  in  her  eyes  died  away  and  vanished 
completely  as  he  described  his  impersonal  observa- 
tions from  the  cellar  window ;  and  when  he  reached 
the  climax — her  passing  from  starboard  to  port 
while  he  stood  in  the  waist — she  lay  back  and 
laughed,  first  softly,  then  with  full  rollick.  William 
laughed,  too.  "Funny  kind  of  a  game  for  a  gink 
like  me  to  play — huh?" 

' '  I  never  heard  anything  like  it !  You  are  a  real 
Sherlock  Holmes!"  Her  attitude  was  no  longer 
aloof.  She  was  ready  to  hear  anything  this 
unusual  young  man  had  to  say. 

"Say,  that  guy  Doyle  can  put  'em  across  the 
plate,  can't  he?  I  read  him  twice  a  year,  along 
with  Kipling." 

"You  enjoy  reading?" 

"Sure.  Maybe  I  read  too  much.  I  don't 
know  how  to  sift  'em.  I  read  Dumas  a  good  deal, 

53 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Jules  Verne,  Dickens,  Hugo,  James  Whitcomb 
Riley,  Mark  Twain,  and  Nick  Carter."  There 
was  a  sly  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"I  don't  quite  recollect  Mr.  Carter." 

"Aw,  you  haven't  been  a  school-teacher  without 
running  up  against  good  old  Nick  in  between 
geographies." 

"But  I  haven't  admitted  that  I'm  a  school- 
teacher." 

"Well,  aren't  you?" 

He  was  a  direct  young  man.  "I  see  that  there 
is  no  escape.  Yes,  I've  met  Mr.  Carter,  but  I've 
never  gone  further  than  to  stuff  him  into  the  paper- 
chutes." 

"Poor  old  Nick!  There's  another  guy  I  like — 
O.  Henry." 

"And  why  do  you  like  him?"  she  asked,  curious 
to  learn  why  O.  Henry  interested  this  young  man 
who  worked  in  the  cellar  of  a  plumber's  shop.  The 
whole  affair  was  so  rich  in  novelty — to  have  watched 
her  feet  flit  past  his  window  for  three  years! 

"Well,"  said  the  happy  William,  "he  never  tells 
me  anything  I  don't  already  know.  You  see,  I 
know  his  people — friends  of  mine,  next-door 
neighbors,  and  all  that." 

She  nodded.  ' '  Did  you  ever  read  a  book  called 
The  Life  of  Benvenuto  Cellini?" 

"Nope." 

"It  is  an  autobiography." 

"Nothing  doing.     When  I  read  I  want  action." 

"But  this  is  like  The  Three  Musketeers,  only  it's 
real.  It's  the  most  exciting  book  you  ever  read." 

54 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Me  for  the  wop." 

"The  what?" 

"The  dago." 

"Oh.  Where  in  the  world  do  you  men  pick  up 
such  wonderful  English?" 

"Now  you're  guying  me.  Well,  maybe  I  am  a 
rough-neck,"  said  William,  dolefully.  "But  I've 
taught  myself  what  I  know,  mostly.  I  went  to 
school  until  I  was  nine,  and  then  I  had  to  hump 
myself.  Went  to  night-school  for  a  term;  but 
that's  the  finish.  And  here  I  am,  taking  the 
grand  hike  around  this  little  old  walnut."  There 
wasn't  any  barrier  here  that  he  could  see ;  she  was 
just  what  he  always  imagined  she  would  be. 

Her  interest  in  this  odd  specimen  of  humanity 
grew.  All  goes  well  with  a  young  man  who  aims 
to  better  himself,  to  improve  his  mind  and  condi- 
tion. She  could  see  in  fancy  the  scrimping  and 
hoarding  to  make  this  trip  possible.  Had  not  she 
herself  fought  for  her  pennies?  Her  ticket  and 
express-checks  represented  the  savings  of  years. 
In  one  mad  moment  she  had  taken  the  plunge, 
closing  her  eyes  to  the  inevitable  rainy  days  of  the 
future.  When  she  returned  she  would  have  to 
begin  life  all  over  again.  Well,  so  be  it.  At 
least  one  dream  should  come  true. 

"If  you  like,  I'll  get  the  Cellini  book  for  you," 
she  said,  impulsively.  She  did  not  know  his  name, 
but  that  did  not  matter.  She  knew  that  his 
eyes  were  of  the  right  sort. 

She  swung  off  the  chair,  a  lithe,  graceful  young 
woman,  something  more  than  pretty,  something 
5  55 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

indescribably  different  from  any  woman  William 
had  met  before;  and  yet  he  knew  that  she  was  a 
school-teacher,  that  she  worked  for  her  bread  and 
butter  the  same  as  he  did.  This  fact  leveled  the 
barriers,  effaced  any  social  dead-lines  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned. 

The  mills  of  the  romantic  gods  began  to  grind 
again.  There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  she 
had  come  from  a  fine  race  of  people,  and  they  had 
willed  the  "come-down"  to  her.  He  didn't  mean 
the  Sunday-newspaper  kind,  money  and  all  that. 
It  was  what  these  writers  of  books  called  breeding, 
something  which  did  not  arrive  in  one  generation, 
but  which  had  to  go  through  the  refining  process 
of  many  generations.  He  was  quite  certain  that 
he  did  not  possess  it,  nor  had  his  father,  nor  his 
father's  father.  Honest,  hard-working,  self-respect- 
ing people;  they  hadn't  been  any  more  than  that. 

He  ran  his  newly  manicured  ringers  through  his 
fiery,  wiry  hair.  He  was  determined  to  watch  her 
closely.  If  breeding  could  be  acquired,  well,  he 
was  going  to  acquire  it.  None  of  your  toplofty 
stuff,  but  as  near  the  real  article  as  he  could 
reasonably  expect  to  approach.  He  knew  most 
of  the  rules,  to  be  sure;  but  he  lacked  manner 
when  it  came  to  interpreting  them.  That's  what 
he  wanted — manner.  It  wasn't  just  guiding  old 
ladies  over  muddy  crossings;  it  was  the  way  you 
accomplished  it.  The  point  in  William's  favor 
was  that  he  knew  what  he  lacked. 

His  school-teacher  here  on  board!  He  had 
actually  talked  to  her,  and  she  had  smiled  and 

56 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

laughed  and  gone  to  get  him  a  book;  all  in  half 
an  hour.  Nothing  had  ever  happened  in  books 
quite  like  this.  The  shipwreck  and  desert  island 
weren't  so  far  away  as  might  be. 

"And  a  homely  mug  like  me!' 

Romance  and  magic  carpets !  William  was  now 
absolutely  certain  that  she  was  the  rich  man's 
daughter  flying  the  mesh  of  the  unfavored  suitor. 
She  was  no  runaway  wife;  that  idea  was  totally 
wrong.  He  mapped  it  all  out.  She  had  run  away 
and  gone  bravely  to  work  rather  than  marry  the 
man  who  was  not  her  choice.  No  doubt  there  was 
a  Handsome-Is  somewhere  in  the  background,  but 
she  had  evidently  slipped  through  his  fingers. 
She  couldn't  laugh  like  that  if  she  hadn't.  Oh,  he 
knew  all  about  it.  Good-looking  young  women, 
fighting  their  own  way,  seldom  escaped  that  sor- 
did adventure.  Somewhere  along  the  route  they 
poked  their  pretty  fingers  into  the  web  of  the 
spider  just  to  see  him  wriggle,  and  some  of  them 
got  caught. 

A  rich  man's  daughter,  running  away  because 
she  loved  her  independence;  a  very  agreeable 
fabric  as  William  wove  it  on  the  loom  of  his  fancy. 
Glory  to  the  day  he  had  stepped  into  Cook's! 

A  shadow  fell  athwart  the  deck,  causing  him  to 
turn.  The  shadow  belonged  to  the  deck  steward. 
The  dapper  little  man  in  uniform  scribbled  on  a 
card,  which  he  slipped  into  the  metal  slide  at  the 
top  of  William's  chair.  On  that  card  was  written, 
"Mr.  Grogan."  William  handed  a  silver  dollar  to 
the  steward. 

57 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Say,  how  do  you  get  into  the  diner?" 

"The  chief  steward  will  take  care  of  you,  sir. 
If  you  want  any  special  place,  you'd  better  apply 
at  once,  sir.  Thank  you."  The  steward  nodded 
briefly  as  he  turned  away. 

William  had  an  idea.  He  rose  and  went  over 
to  the  school-teacher's  chair.  "Miss  Jones";  it 
wasn't  at  all  romantic.  But  it  might  be  assumed. 
Anyhow,  it  did  not  matter.  He  turned  to  his 
chair. 

She  came  back. 

"Say,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  my  name  is 
Grogan." 

' '  And  mine  is  Jones. ' '  There  was  not  the  slight- 
est hesitance  in  her  reply. 

"William  Grogan,  generally  Bill." 

"I  certainly  am  not  going  to  call  you  that." 
She  laughed.  This  was  nothing  but  a  big,  lone- 
some boy.  So  she  accepted  his  advances  for 
exactly  what  they  were.  "Here's  the  book.  I 
know  you'll  enjoy  it.  It  will  make  Florence  and 
Rome  doubly  interesting  to  you." 

"If  it's  got  action,  that's  all  I  want.  It's 
mighty  kind  of  you.  I'd  probably  jump  over- 
board if  I  didn't  have  something  to  read." 

"There  is  plenty  to  read  in  the  ship's  library." 

"A  library  on  board?  Well,  that's  luck.  Say, 
have  you  seen  the  steward  about  your  seat  in  the 
dining-room?" 

"I  don't  care  where  I  sit." 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  saw  to  it?" 

' '  Indeed  no. "  She  might  better  sit  next  to  him 
58 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

than  next  to  some  one  who  might  be  wholly  prosaic 
and  uninteresting.  He  would  at  least  afford  her  a 
little  amusement. 

He  gave  a  quick  nod  of  his  head — well  shaped 
under  its  thatch — and  strode  away  to  interview 
the  chief  steward.  He  looked  like  a  very  strong 
young  man,  good-humored  until  aroused,  and  then 
she  imagined  rather  a  difficult  customer.  She 
had  handled  his  prototype  in  boyhood ;  wild  little 
animals,  always  ready  to  play  or  fight,  impervious 
to  anything  but  kindness.  The  Irish — how  well 
she  knew  them,  hot-headed,  passionate  in  their 
hates  and  loves,  with  an  exaggerated  sense  of 
loyalty,  sensitive  in  the  extreme,  generous  to  a 
fault,  and  always  blue-eyed.  Perhaps  she  should 
have  snubbed  him  for  a  day  or  so ;  but  she,  too,  had 
been  lonely.  Had  she  not  begun  this  long  voyage 
for  the  very  dread  of  loneliness?  Had  she  not  sud- 
denly and  desperately  craved  for  strange  scenes, 
multitudes  ? 

At  dinner  that  night  he  was  at  her  right,  at  one 
of  the  beam  tables  on  the  port  side.  She  noticed 
that  he  made  no  mistakes,  that  his  table  manners 
were  good.  On  the  other  side  of  her  was  another 
young  man,  somewhere  in  the  thirties.  He  was 
as  far  removed  from  the  Grogan  type  as  the  moon 
is  from  Mars.  Immaculately  dressed,  suave,  pol- 
ished, good-looking,  he  managed  to  divert  her  at- 
tention frequently. 

William  was  dressed  in  his  every-day  clothes, 
and  he  scowled  as  his  roving  eye  caught  the  flash 
of  white  shirt-bosoms  here  and  there  among  the 

59 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

male  passengers.  Fully  half  the  men  were  wearing 
evening  dress.  William  was  thoroughly  fortified 
in  this  particular,  but  he  hadn't  expected  to  be 
called  upon  to  wear  this  new  regalia  except  upon 
state  occasions,  such  as  at  balls,  the  meeting  of 
dukes  and  rajahs.  Well,  to-morrow  night  he 
would  not  be  caught  napping.  Besides,  what  did 
he  care?  His  school-teacher  was  wearing  the 
same  clothes  she  had  come  aboard  with,  and  she 
"laid  'em  all  cold  on  looks." 

He  recognized  the  man  on  the  other  side  of  her. 
It  was  the  "fresh  guy"  who  had  bumped  into  him 
so  rudely  coming  up  the  gang-plank. 

"I'll  get  his  number  to-morrow,"  he  thought; 
"and  I'll  eat  my  hat  if  it  isn't  'shine'!  I  wonder 
how  he  got  that  seat?" 

After  dinner  the  school-teacher  disappeared. 
So  William,  very  well  satisfied  with  himself  and 
the  world  at  large,  strolled  into  the  smoke-room 
with  the  copy  of  Cellini.  He  lighted  a  brier  pipe 
and  soon  became  absorbed  in  the  adventures  of  the 
amazing  Florentine. 

At  half  after  ten  a  man  entered  the  wireless-room 
and  despatched  a  Marconigram  to  New  York. 
This  message,  all  very  innocent  on  the  face  of  it, 
started  the  whirligig  upon  which  a  certain  Irish- 
man was  to  spin  out  various  lengths  of  his  mortal 
thread.  Fate  is  a  cynical  gamester;  for  the  man 
who  sent  that  message  and  the  man  who  received 
it  didn't  know  William  Grogan  from  Adam ! 


CHAPTER  V 

NEXT   morning   William    went    to   breakfast 
rather    early.      He    ate    oranges,    oatmeal, 
beefsteak  and  fried  potatoes,   bacon  and  liver, 
three  squares  of  toast,  and  drank  two  cups  of 
coffee. 

William's  cabin-mates  were  two  old  archeolo- 
gists,  bound  for  mid-Africa.  Clausen  sat  opposite 
and  eyed  William  with  profound  envy.  To  pos- 
sess a  physical  organization  that  demanded  such  a 
start-off  for  the  day !  He  sighed. 

"Young  man,  I'd  give  a  million — if  I  had  it! — 
for  an  appetite  like  yours." 

"Well,"  replied  William,  genially,  "I  guess  it  'd 
take  a  million  to  keep  it  going.  I've  been  the 
ruination  of  half  a  dozen  boarding-houses."  He 
folded  his  napkin  and  patted  it  down  beside  his 
plate,  a  thrifty  habit  he  had  acquired  from  years 
of  living  in  boarding-houses  where  one  napkin 
must  go  through  three  campaigns  before  it  is 
turned  into  the  laundry.  "Say,  Mr.  Clausen, 
you've  been  over  before.  Ever  ride  an  elephant?" 

"Yes"— mournfully. 

"What's  it  like?" 

"It's  like  straddling  the  roof  of  a  wooden  house 
during  an  exceedingly  violent  earthquake." 

61 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"You  can't  scare  me,"  said  William,  as  he  turn- 
stiled  himself  out  of  the  chair  and  made  for  the 
upper  deck. 

Could  anything  have  scared  him  that  glorious 
morning,  his  appetite  satisfied,  his  lungs  full  of 
fresh  sea-air,  the  blood  bounding  through  his 
veins?  I  doubt  it. 

William  hurried  away  to  his  chair,  but,  finding 
that  the  school-teacher's  was  unoccupied,  he  im- 
mediately lost  interest  in  the  spot.  He  next 
turned  into  the  smoke-room ;  nobody  home  there. 
Where  were  they  all,  anyhow?  It  was  after  nine, 
and  not  two  dozen  souls  were  up  and  abroad. 
Could  anybody  possibly  be  seasick  on  a  day  like 
this?  There  was  only  what  the  chief  engineer 
called  a  fair  beam  sea  running  up  from  the  south- 
west ;  not  enough  to  spill  the  cat's  milk. 

He  began  to  worry.  Supposing  she  was  seasick? 
That  would  mean  a  long,  lonesome  day  for  him. 

A  fit  of  restlessness  laid  hold  of  him.  He 
tramped  up  and  down  the  decks,  explored  the 
library,  the  barber's  shop,  and  the  steerage.  In 
the  end  he  found  temporary  anchorage  against 
the  weather  rail,  near  the  entrance  to  the  smoke- 
room.  He  blinked  in  the  dazzle  of  the  leaping 
blue  water,  took  out  a  Partaga,  turned  it  over  and 
over  in  his  fingers,  and  grinned  pleasurably. 
Back  of  that  little  roll  of  Havana  was  a  twenty- 
thousand-dollar  interest  in  Burns,  Dolan  &  Co., 
master  plumbers,  about  four  thousand  in  the  Corn 
Exchange,  and  a  letter  of  credit  for  three  thousand 
in  his  inside  pocket,  la-de-dah. 

62 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

He  lighted  the  cigar  and  puffed  luxuriously. 
He  had  read  about  Partagas.  Sir  Percival  was 
always  smoking  one  as  he  faced  the  lions,  or 
Hockheimer,  the  theatrical  magnate,  as  he  gave 
a  million  in  royalties  to  the  poor  playwright,  or 
Reginald  Van  Wiggs  as  he  heard  his  doom  read  in 
his  uncle's  will.  William  was  always  playing 
pranks  mentally  with  some  of  the  heroes  he  had 
read  about.  But  that  he,  William  Grogan,  should 
live  to  stick  this  brand  of  perfecto  between  his 
teeth  was  like  a  dream  in  hashish.  And  once  upon 
a  time — two  months  since,  in  fact — his  wildest 
dream  would  have  stopped  short  of  a  box  of 
George  W.  Childs's!  Maybe  it  was  a  dream,  after 
all,  the  ship,  the  cigar,  the  girl.  Impulsively  he 
brought  the  heel  of  his  left  shoe  down  upon  the  toe 
of  his  right.  He  felt  it. 

' '  I  should  worry !"  he  murmured. 

The  cigar  slowly  vanished  in  ashes.  Truth  to 
tell,  while  he  enjoyed  it  to  a  certain  extent,  he 
would  have  preferred  his  corn-cob  and  "scrap." 
There  wasn't  any  "kick"  to  these  perfectos. 

"Beautiful  morning,  isn't  it?" 

William  looked  up  slowly.     "Yes,  it  is." 

Panama  hat,  white  flannels,  white  shoes,  silk 
shirt,  just  exactly  like  those  chaps  on  the  stage 
dressed.  The  man  was  good-looking;  William 
admitted  this  grudgingly,  but  he  knew  in  his 
soul  that  he  wasn't  going  to  like  the  man.  Why? 
Oh,  it  was  one  of  his  "hunches." 

"Going  all  the  way  around?" 

"Ye-ah.     Always  wanted  to  see  the  Orient." 
63 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"You'll  enjoy  it.  I  took  the  grand  tour  seven 
years  ago.  My  name  is  Richard  Camden.  I  be- 
lieve we  sit  at  the  same  table." 

"Mine  is  William  Grogan,  and  this  is  my  first 
trip  anywhere  that  amounts  to  anything." 

"I  envy  you.  Everything  will  be  new  and 
strange.  I'm  not  going  around  myself.  Called 
to  Europe  suddenly;  and  this  was  the  only  boat 
leaving  at  the  time.  I  had  to  hustle." 

"Ye-ah.  I  noticed  that  when  you  came  on 
board." 

Camden  laughed.  "I  recollect  bumping  into 
you.  I  apologize  again." 

"Passed  by  the  censor,"  said  William,  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand.  "I  wonder  these  gulls  never 
get  tired." 

"Gulls  never  tire." 

"Same  class  as  suckers;  I  see.  They  keep 
coming  back." 

Camden  laughed  again.  This  red-headed  young 
man  was  keen.  Trust  a  New-Yorker  to  get  the 
undertow.  Merely  the  inflection  of  tone,  and 
yet  he  had  caught  the  ironic  spirit  back  of  the 
words. 

"The  young  lady  who  sat  between  us  last  night 
at  dinner  is  charming." 

An  indefinable  something  warned  William  to  be 
wary.  He  had  a  natural  distrust  for  well-dressed 
idlers,  especially  when  they  spoke  of  women. 
Was  the  man  trying  to  pump  him? 

"You're  right;  she  is.  I've  known  her  for  three 
years." 

64 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

' '  Three  years  ?    Why,  you're  old  friends,  then !" 

"Well,  you  wouldn't  exactly  call  it  that.  What 
you  might  call  a  passing  acquaintance."  William 
considered  that  very  good.  "She's  a  school- 
teacher around  the  corner  from  my  shop.  I  had 
no  idea  she  was  going  to  make  the  trip;  and 
she  was  surprised  to  see  me."  Inwardly  he 
communed,  '  'William,  you're  some  Ananias,  take 
it  from  me!" 

What  was  his  purpose  in  these  half -lies?  It  was 
too  remote,  too  vague  for  him  to  define.  He  was 
doubtless  endeavoring  to  throw  some  kind  of  pro- 
tection around  the  lonely  girl  by  letting  the  world 
at  large  know  that  William  Grogan's  two  fists 
were  hers  for  the  asking.  In  a  sense  it  was  primor- 
dial, the  ancient  male  idea,  the  warning  off  of  all 
other  males. 

"I  did  not  quite  get  the  name,"  said  Camden. 

"Grogan — William  Grogan,"  said  William,  a 
sardonic  grin  pulling  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"I  mean  the  young  lady's  name." 

"Oh!"  William  eyed  the  racing  foam  below 
speculatively.  "Miss  Jones;  not  very  hard  to 
remember." 

"You  can't  remember  anything  you  don't  hear 
distinctly.  Will  you  have  a  cigarette?"  asked  the 
man  Camden,  offering  his  case. 

"I  roll  a  Durham  once  in  a  while,  but  no  dope 
for  mine.  Say,  I  wonder  if  there's  any  professional 
gamblers  on  board?  Signs  are  hanging  up  in  the 
smoke-room." 

"Professionals  on  a  trip  like  this?  Good  Lord, 
65 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

no!  They'd  starve  to  death.  They  ply  generally 
between  New  York,  Liverpool,  and  Cherbourg." 

"Well,  that's  too  bad.  I  thought  of  course 
there' d  be  a  few  sharks  in  this  school  of  mackerel. 
I've  been  building  for  weeks  on  seeing  the  gambler 
held  up  by  some  handsome  outsider  and  the  foolish 
young  man,  traveling  with  the  firm's  money,  paid 
back  his  losses.  Shucks !' ' 

"I  don't  believe  you  stand  in  much  danger." 
Camden  narrowed  his  eyes  as  the  smoke  from  his 
cigarette  volleyed  past  his  cheek. 

"They  couldn't  take  a  peek  at  a  nickel  of  mine. 
This  little  old  letter  of  credit,"  said  William, 
slapping  his  coat  pocket,  "is  for  expenses  only.  I 
play  a  game  of  pinochle  once  in  a  while;  but  be- 
yond that,  nothing  doing.  There's  no  something- 
for-nothing  on  my  program.  Work  and  cards 
don't  mix." 

"True  enough.  I  like  to  gamble  for  small 
stakes,  just  enough  to  make  the  game  interesting. 
But  there'll  be  no  chance  on  board  the  Ajax. 
There  is,  however,  a  lot  of  sport  in  double  canfield. 
You  can  knock  half  a  day  galley-west  with  a  pack 
of  cards.  Drop  into  the  smoke-room  to-night  and 
I'll  teach  you  a  game  or  two  of  solitaire." 

"That  '11  be  fine.  So  long  as  I  don't  have  to 
dig  in  my  jeans,  any  kind  of  a  game  for  mine.'* 

"All  right,  then;  any  time  after  dinner.  Good 
morning." 

William  did  not  leave  the  rail  at  once.  He  was 
puzzled.  Anything  which  did  not  appear  to  come 
in  the  natural  order  of  events  made  him  suspicious. 

66 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

He  knew  instinctively  that  he  was  not  of  the  sort 
of  men  the  Camden  caliber  picked  out  for  acquaint- 
anceship, not  even  on  a  ship  like  the  Ajax.  What 
was  he  really  fishing  for?  Why  should  this 
matinee  idol  bother  to  ask  William  Grogan  what 
the  school-teacher's  name  was,  when  all  he  had  to 
do  was  to  look  at  the  dining-room  chart?  The 
puzzle  was  not  solvable. 

"Pumping  me,  all  right.  But  I  know  all  about 
pumps;  and  a  lot  you'll  get  up  through  my  pipes, 
Percival." 

Nevertheless,  he  sought  his  chair,  vaguely  per- 
turbed ;  and  it  took  him  some  time  to  get  back  into 
the  final  pages  of  Cellini.  He  had  laid  the  book 
aside  and  was  in  a  half-dream  when  he  heard  the 
foot-rest  of  the  other  chair  rattle.  He  jumped  to 
his  feet. 

"Good  morning,"  he  greeted. 

"Good  morning.  No,  thanks;  don't  bother 
with  the  rugs.  You're  a  good  sailor,  too,  it  seems. 
Isn't  it  wonderful,  the  sky,  the  sea,  and  the  wind? 
So  you've  finished  Messer  Cellini?  Isn't  that  a 
tremendous  chronicle?  Think  of  being  a  personal 
friend  of  Michelangelo  and  his  contemporaries!" 

"Say,  if  he  was  alive,  we  wouldn't  need  to  worry 
about  white  hopes.  He  wouldn't  spill  the  beans 
over  a  pound  or  two  in  weight." 

"Beans?" 

"Aw,  there  I  go,  into  the  rough-neck  stuff  again! 
I've  got  so  used  to  talking  that  way  I  can't  help 
it." 

"Perhaps  you  don't  try  hard  enough." 
67 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Say,  supposing  you  start  in  and  tell  me  where  I 
get  off  on  the  straight  talk?" 

"You  mean  correct  you?  That's  a  pretty  large 
order.  Suppose  you  make  it  a  point  not  to  use 
slang  whenever  you  talk  to  me?" 

"All  right.  But  I'll  have  to  let  down  easy. 
You  see,  I  couldn't  make  myself  understood  if  I 
had  to  give  it  up  all  at  once.  You  understand 
me?"  He  wondered  why  she  smiled. 

"Oh  yes.  School  -  children  have  a  marvelous 
faculty  of  picking  up  slang  phrases." 

"Say,  but  this  Cellini  guy — " 

"What  does  guy  really  mean?" 

"A  guy?  Why,  a  guy  is  a  guy!"  William 
rumpled  his  hair  perplexedly. 

"Mr.  Grogan,  you  don't  know  what  the  words 
mean  yourself,  half  the  time.  How,  then,  do  you 
expect  us  outsiders  to  understand?" 

"I  guess  you've  got  me  there,  all  right.  Well, 
this  Cellini — Dumas  wrote  a  story  around  him." 

"Ascanio." 

"That's  the  boy.  My!  but  the  old  geezer  did 
some  tall  scrapping.  He  only  ate  when  he  couldn ' t 
get  anybody  to  fight  with.  And  I  thought  this 
Cellini  person  was  an  invention  of  Dumas' !  Well, 
I'm  on  my  way  around  the  world,  and  maybe 
my  bumps  won't  be  strained  when  I  land  in  little 
old  New  York  again!" 

By  the  time  the  steward's  boy  came  around  with 
the  broth  and  crackers  William  had  told  the  story 
of  his  life,  the  humdrum  of  it,  his  ambitions  which 
had  promised  to  die  of  attrition,  and  then  the 

68 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

magical  windfall  out  of  nowhere.  Her  summing 
up  of  this  serio-comic  tale  would  have  dumf  ounded 
him,  for  it  consisted  solely  of  the  conviction  that 
he  possessed  the  most  expressive  blue  eyes  she 
had  ever  seen. 

On  her  side,  however,  she  had  no  confidences  to 
exchange.  Indeed,  William  hadn't  expected  any. 
He  was  perfectly  content  to  find  an  ear  into  which 
to  pour  his  own.  It  was  something  new  to  have 
so  good  a  listener.  She  seemed  to  understand, 
too;  and  it  was  a  rare  treat  to  watch  the  varying 
expressions  of  her  face  as  he  went  along.  He  was 
faring  forth  on  quicksands,  bravely  and  boldly, 
only  he  was  not  aware  of  it. 

He  amused  her,  scattered  self -thought,  made  her 
forget,  temporarily  at  least,  the  ghosts  which 
haunted  her.  She  really  wanted  to  be  alone,  and 
yet  she  knew  that  in  loneliness  lay  her  danger.  .  .  . 
An  impulse  came  to  her.  Why  not  take  this 
whimsical  young  man  under  her  teacher's  wing, 
and  without  his  sensing  it  teach  him  what  paint- 
ings meant,  music,  architecture,  and  peoples? 
Six  months;  within  that  time  she  might  give  him 
the  basis  of  a  good  education.  He  was  quick 
enough  mentally;  all  he  needed  was  direction. 
Perhaps  this  impulse  was  born  of  selfishness,  a 
desire  to  keep  her  mind  occupied.  That  she 
might  spoil  his  life  never  entered  her  thoughts. 

On  Saturday  morning  Camden  came  out  of  the 
smoke-room,  bored  and  irritable.  He  was  about 
to  go  forward  in  quest  of  amusement  when  he 
heard  feminine  laughter  the  quality  of  which  was 

69 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

rather  tuneful  in  his  ear.  He  paused.  Then  he 
stepped  around  the  corner  of  the  deck-house  and 
discovered  the  Irishman  in  the  act  of  describing 
some  incident  evidently  humorous.  Unobserved, 
he  studied  the  girl's  face.  It  was  one  of  those 
singular  countenances  which  in  repose  is  pretty, 
but  which  is  really  beautiful  when  successive  waves 
of  animation  pass  over  it. 

He  approached,  bowed  easily,  and  asked  per- 
mission to  sit  upon  the  coil  of  rope. 

"I  heard  some  one  laughing;  and  as  there  was 
no  one  in  the  smoke-room  but  professors  and 
preachers  and  missionaries  to  whom  the  odor  of 
tobacco  is  objectionable,  I  had  to  run  for  it.  They 
have  all  the  comfortable  lounges,  and  the  noise  is 
like  a  church  bazaar.  I  haven't  found  a  soul  on 
board  yet  who  is  going  around  the  world  just  for 
the  fun  of  it.  You  are  not  making  the  trip,  are 
you,  Miss  Jones,  for  the  uplift  of  the  spirit?" 

"I  am  not.  I  am  going  around  the  world  to  see 
things,  to  be  amused,  and  to  have  other  people 
wait  upon  me.  To  sit  back  and  be  waited  on, 
that's  been  the  dream  of  my  life." 

"Anything  you'd  like  just  now?"  asked  William. 

Camden  threw  him  an  admiring  glance.  The 
very  words  had  been  on  the  tip  of  his  own  tongue. 
The  Irishman  had  beaten  him  out.  Then  he  de- 
liberately set  himself  about  the  task  of  interesting 
the  girl  and  blanketing  William;  and  by  the  time 
the  bugle  announced  luncheon  William  felt  that 
he  had  been  eliminated.  Camden  thoroughly 
enjoyed  the  play;  but  it  was  certain  that  the 

70 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

possibility  of  his  becoming  a  friend  of  WilKam 
Grogan  was  more  than  ever  remote.  William  was 
no  fool;  he  understood  that  he  had  been  smoth- 
ered, side-tracked,  left  at  the  post;  but  he  took 
his  medicine  without  murmur. 

He  never  looked  into  his  likes  and  dislikes. 
They  formed  instantly.  Being  a  philosopher  in 
the  rough,  he  had  no  determinate  phrases  by  which 
to  express  himself  upon  the  subject.  He  had 
"hunches."  He  was  not  infallible  by  any  means, 
but  the  margin  of  his  mistakes  was  remarkably 
small.  His  "hunch"  in  this  particular  case  was 
that  Camden  was  a  little  too  "previous."  The 
East  Side  vernacular  had  a  synonym,  and  natural- 
ly William  preferred  it.  Camden  was  a  "shine." 
And  somewhere  along  the  route  he  was  going  to 
prove  it  to  his  individual  satisfaction. 

The  idea  that  he  had  been  put  on  board  the 
Ajax  by  a  special  act  of  Providence  to  watch  over 
this  girl  became  more  fixed,  an  obsession  perhaps. 
He  had  drawn  a  Friar  Tuck  circle  around  her,  and 
woe  to  the  man  who  was  unwise  enough  to  step 
inside. 

He  turned  in  early  that  night.  He  was  half 
asleep  when  his  cabin-mates  came  in.  Neither 
would  see  sixty  again.  Greenwood  was  generally 
irritable,  while  Clausen,  the  Dane,  was  invariably 
amiable.  What  little  William  had  seen  of  them 
convinced  him  that  they  were  as  tough  as  rhinoc- 
eroses. Over  sixty,  and  still  going  back  to  the 
deserts  with  shovels  and  sun-umbrellas!  And 
what  was  it  all  about,  anyhow?  He  gave  it  up. 
6  7i 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Evidently  they  had  been  haranguing  on  deck. 
They  were  still  arguing  as  they  came  in.  Vaguely 
William  heard  "Nineveh"  and  "excavations"  and 
"authority."  The  bone  of  contention  seemed  to 
be  the  restorations  of  Shalmaneser  I.  Finally  the 
audience  of  one  opened  his  eyes  and  leaned  sleepily 
over  the  edge  of  his  bunk.  By  this  time  one  of 
the  patriarchs  was  violently  waving  his  shirt  to 
drive  home  his  point. 

"Want  a  referee?"  William  asked,  gently. 

The  two  old  fellows  looked  up,  blank  of  eye. 

"Who  is  this  guy,  anyhow?" 

"Who,  Shalmaneser?" 

"Ye-ah." 

"He  was  one  of  the  kings  of  Assyria." 

"Well,  say!  I  thought  maybe  he  was  that 
new  Dutchman  who's  after  Hans  Wagner's  left 
mitt." 

"Frightful  ignorance!"  grumbled  the  shirt- 
waver. 

Clausen  smiled.  "Shalmaneser  was  born  thir- 
teen hundred  B.C." 

"That  lets  me  out,"  declared  the  unregenerate 
one.  "What's  the  matter  with  writing  one  of  his 
descendants  and  putting  the  bet  up  to  him?  I 
wouldn't  lose  any  sleep  over  a  guy  that's  been  dead 
all  that  time." 

Old  Clausen  laughed.  "I  am  sorry  we  waked 
you,  Mr.  Grogan." 

"Passed  by  the  censor,"  replied  William,  bunch- 
ing his  pillows  anew. 

"Sleep?  Well,  that's  reasonable,"  mumbled 
72 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Greenwood,  dropping  his  shirt  indifferently  to  the 
floor.  "But  still  I  contend—" 

"Low  bridge!" 

The  cabin  became  as  silent  as  the  tomb  of  Shal- 
maneser  himself  save  when  a  roller  broke  on  the 
metal  sides  of  the  ship  under  the  open  port. 

Of  course,  William  had  to  recount  this  little 
adventure  the  following  morning,  and  thereupon 
had  his  first  glimpse  behind  the  corner  of  his 
school-teacher's  past. 

"Can't  you  see  the  pair  of  them  rowing  over 
every  tombstone  they  come  to?  If  there's  any- 
thing left  of  the  Tower  of  Babel,  believe  me,  some 
bricks  are  going  to  be  missing.  What's  it  all 
about?  Who  cares?  Thirteen  hundred  before 
Christ;  some  past!" 

"Wouldn't  you  be  interested  to  know  how  they 
got  water  up  to  the  hanging  gardens  of  Babylon, 
there  in  the  desert?  Wouldn't  you  like  to  know 
what  machinery  they  had,  how  they  manufactured 
their  cloths,  made  their  weapons,  lived,  worked, 
and  died?" 

"Why,  sure  I  would!" 

"Well,  your  ancients,  as  you  call  them,  are  en- 
deavoring to  find  out  these  very  things,  to  learn  if 
humanity  has  really  progressed  in  all  these  cen- 
turies. My  father  was  a  scientist  and  spent  most 
of  his  time  trying  to  find  some  method  of  over- 
coming gravity  or  neutralizing  it.  There  is  no 
other  quest  so  interesting  as  that  pursued  by  the 
man  of  science,  the  explorer.  What  hardships 
accepted  unmurmuringly !  For  money?  No. 

73 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Great  scientists  are  dreadful  spendthrifts.  They 
ask  for  nothing  but  the  fact  itself,  and  most  of 
them  die  in  poverty.  My  father  did;  and  he 
never  found  his  fact." 

"I'm  sorry.  I  suppose  it's  because  I'm  young, 
alive,  and  hungry  three  times  a  day.  You  never 
ran  across  a  young  archeologist,  did  you?" 

"Not  that  I  can  recall,"  she  answered,  smiling 
suddenly.  After  all,  she  had  no  right  to  lecture 
him.  She  could  have  stated  her  facts  without 
unnecessary  heat. 

"So  you've  had  to  fight  for  bread  and  butter, 
the  same  as  I  have?" 

"Yes."  And  the  little  corner  of  the  curtain 
fell,  to  be  stirred  no  more  that  day. 

William  figuratively  heard  the  tinkle  of  falling 
glass.  His  captivating  romance  lay  shattered  at 
his  feet.  She  was  not  a  rich  man's  daughter;  she 
was  the  daughter  of  a  man  who  had  died  in  pover- 
ty. It  took  her  down  from  the  stars,  but  on  the 
other  hand  it  wrapped  her  in  a  fog.  Perhaps  the 
clerk  in  Cook's  was  wrong,  after  all;  perhaps  she 
wasn't  running  away  from  anything. 

On  Monday  afternoon  there  were  games;  and 
with  his  usual  enthusiasm  William  entered  each 
contest,  winning  the  pillow-fight  astride  a  spar. 
He  wasn't  afraid  to  laugh,  and  his  roars  could  be 
heard  above  the  general  laughter.  He  was  like  a 
boy  of  ten  in  enthusiasm,  but  behind  this  was  the 
strength  of  a  lion  and  the  agility  of  a  leopard. 
For  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  he  was  a  hero  to  the 
children,  who  followed  him  about  the  deck;  and 

74 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

when  he  sat  down,  his  legs  crossed  tailor-fashion, 
and  told  them  bloody  pirate  tales,  his  conquest 
was  complete.  Children  and  dogs  always  came 
at  a  beckon  from  William,  and  he  was  serenely 
unconscious  of  the  magnetism  which  made  this 
possible. 

Camden  and  the  school-teacher  had  witnessed 
William's  exploits  from  the  skirts  of  the  crowd. 

"Odd  character,"  was  Camden's  comment. 

' '  Yes ;  but  strong  and  clean .     And  he  is  funny . ' ' 

"You've  known  him  long?" 

"Oh  no.  I  never  saw  him  before  we  came 
aboard;  but  it  seems  he  has  known  me  for  three 
years.  He  has  a  wonderful  eye  and  memory. 
For  three  years  he  watched  me  go  past  the  cellar 
window  of  the  shop  he  works  in.  And,  would  you 
believe  it,  he  identified  me  by  my  feet,  never  hav- 
ing seen  my  face!" 

"What  does  he  do?" 

"He's  a  plumber." 

"Ye  gods!" 

They  both  laughed;  but  her  laughter  ceased 
first.  She  became  suddenly  and  guiltily  con- 
scious of  the  snobbery  in  it. 

The  beautiful  days  slipped  past.  Never,  in  all 
his  dreams,  had  William  found  such  fun  in  life. 
He  made  friends,  port  and  starboard;  even  the 
aristocracy  smiled  at  and  with  him.  And  he  had 
his  own  secret  fun,  the  gamin's  outlook.  There 
were  always  four  or  five  kiddies  trailing  at  his 
heels;  and  whenever  he  paused  to  play  with  them 

75 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

there  was  a  strange  beauty  in  his  face.  He  loved 
children. 

The  only  D.  A.  R.  in  northwest  Kansas  con- 
sulted him  about  taking  up  the  collection  for  the 
seamen's  fund;  the  only  poet  in  southwest  Penn- 
sylvania complained  to  him  of  the  inconsistencies 
of  D'Annunzio's  flights;  the  first  mayor  of  Spotts- 
ville,  Oklahoma,  (Mr.  Spotts)  discoursed  on  our 
foreign  policies;  and  the  most  important  invalid 
on  board  drew  diagrams  of  his  various  operations 
for  William's  edification.  The  two  young  Misses 
Doolittle  (from  up-State) — their  father  had  served 
a  term  in  the  State  Legislature — described  William 
as  "delicious"!  The  old  men  called  him  the  hu- 
man dynamo;  the  old  ladies  whose  feet  he  some- 
times tucked  in  declared  that  he  was  "a  dear"; 
and  the  children  called  him  "great."  Such  a  man 
may  be  a  "character,"  but  he  is  never  insignifi- 
cant. 

They  dropped  the  Azores,  and  that  night  Wil- 
liam ran  afoul  a  most  peculiar  adventure.  He  had 
finished  his  second  cigar  after  dinner — it  was 
about  eleven — and  was  taking  a  three-times- 
around  before  turning  in.  His  thoughts  centered 
upon  his  school-teacher,  naturally. 

This  train  of  thought  was  abruptly  and  pain- 
fully derailed  by  human  energy.  Some  one  fell 
upon  his  back  like  the  old  man  of  the  sea,  out  of 
nowhere. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WILLIAM  was  strong,  quick,  and  aggressive, 
but  the  sudden  jab  in  the  locality  of  his 
kidneys  took  all  the  fight  out  of  him;  the  power, 
mind  you,  not  the  will  to  fight.  The  pain  was 
excruciating;  breathing  was  a  torture.  The 
kidney  blow,  as  in  boxing,  was  well  known  to  him; 
but  his  unseen  assailant  had  hit  an  unknown  spot, 
causing  a  kind  of  paralysis.  He  felt  his  wrists 
seized  in  a  grip  which  was  like  cold  wire,  drawn 
back,  and  clutched  by  one  hand.  It  seemed  in- 
credible that  any  human  being  could  render  him 
so  helpless.  The  free  hand  began  to  rifle  the  coat 
pockets.  It  was  all  very  fast  work.  William 
subconsciously  paid  tribute  to  this.  He  had  not 
boxed  all  these  years  without  being  able  to  recog- 
nize speed  and  skill.  Even  while  this  thought  was 
passing  through  his  head,  the  man  behind  gave 
him  a  kick  back  of  the  knee-joint;  and  the  bewil- 
dered William  went  floundering  among  the  stacked 
steamer  chairs.  When  he  crawled  to  his  feet  he 
was  alone. 

At  once  he  took  inventory.  His  wallet,  with 
some  thirty-odd  dollars,  was  gone;  but  his  watch 
was  safe,  as  was  his  letter  of  credit,  which  he  car- 
ried in  the  hip  pocket  of  his  trousers. 

77 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

He  was  thinking  strongly.  Held  up  and  robbed 
as  easily  as  though  he  had  been  a  child!  It  was 
galling.  What  made  him  furious  was  not  the  loss 
of  his  wallet;  it  was  the  thought  that  he  hadn't 
been  able  to  strike  a  single  blow.  He  rubbed  his 
back  tenderly  and  massaged  the  under  side  of  his 
knee.  Helpless  as  a  babe  in  a  cradle! — he,  who 
had  always  taken  pride  in  the  agility  of  his  legs 
and  the  ability  of  his  fists!  He  was  a  bit  vain  of 
his  strength,  being  Irish;  and  the  blow  to  his 
vanity  was  a  severe  one.  It  was  not  a  braggart's 
vanity,  however;  it  was  based  upon  a  hundred  and 
ninety  pounds  of  splendid  bone  and  muscle  and  the 
knowledge  of  how  to  manipulate  these  scientif- 
ically. 

A  jab  in  the  kidneys,  a  kick  back  of  the  knee, 
and  then,  good  night!  He  knew  that  it  had  not 
been  accidental.  The  man  had  known  just  where 
to  place  those  blows;  and  it  was  this  fact  that 
interested  him.  He  had  heard  vaguely  of  the 
Japanese  science  called  jiu-jitsu,  but  through 
ignorance  had  regarded  its  usefulness  contemptu- 
ously. It  did  not  occur  to  him  at  that  moment 
that  he  had  been  treated  to  a  very  good  example 
of  its  efficacy. 

He  sensibly  did  not  waste  any  time  prowling 
about.  The  play  was  over;  the  audience  could  gp 
home.  Whoever  had  robbed  him  was  in  safe 
quarters  by  now.  So  he  limped  to  the  companion- 
way  and  went  down  to  his  cabin.  He  found  his 
ancients  asleep,  so  he  moved  about  carefully. 
He  wasn't  up  to  any  Shalmaneser  to-night.  He 

78 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

crawled  into  his  berth  and  lay  there,  thinking. 
He  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  to  say  nothing. 
His  wallet,  thirty  dollars,  and  a  few  useless  odds 
and  ends  were  gone.  But  the  next  time  any  one 
jumped  on  his  back  he  was  going  to  lie  down 
swiftly ;  and  then  woe  to  the  man  he  turned  over 
on !  Which  was  very  good  counter  jiu-jitsu,  had 
he  but  known  it. 

He  was  late  the  next  morning,  and  when  he 
arrived  on  deck  he  found  his  school-teacher  playing 
shuffleboard  with  Camden.  They  were  laughing 
and  jesting,  and  the  girl's  cheeks  were  dyed  with 
color.  William's  "good  morning"  lacked  its 
accustomed  grin.  He  was  not  without  a  com- 
mendable sense  of  justice.  Why  didn't  he  like 
this  man  Camden,  against  whom  he  could  find 
nothing  save  that  he  wore  his  clothes  to  the  man- 
ner born,  that  he  was  slender,  elegant,  good-look- 
ing, was  as  much  at  ease  with  women  as  with  men, 
and  that  nothing  ever  seemed  to  disturb  his 
equanimity?  "He's  the  canary  in  the  aviary,  and 
I'm  the  bull  in  the  china-shop,"  was  William's 
commentary.  Was  it  the  disparity  in  grace  and 
outward  appearance  that  set  in  motion  this  subtle 
antagonism?  William  always  denied  vehemently 
that  he  was  ever  stirred  by  class  prejudice;  and 
I  honestly  believe  he  was  free  of  this  incurable 
canker.  Doubtless  the  feeling  was,  as  I  have  al- 
ready remarked,  a  matter  of  plain  male  jealousy. 

The  two  finished  the  game,  and  Camden  ex- 
tended the  stick  to  William. 

"Try  a  game?" 

79 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

' '  Not  this  morning.     Got  a  game  leg. ' ' 

"Why,  I  noticed  that  you  limped!"  said  the  girl. 

Immediately  William's  spirits  went  up  ten 
points.  "Stumbled  down  the  companionway  last 
night,"  he  explained. 

"Hunt  up  the  ship's  doctor,"  suggested  Camden. 
' '  He'll  give  you  a  dash  of  liniment.  Wrench  ?" 

"Kind  of.     Where  do  you  find  this  sawbones?" 

' '  Next  to  the  barber's  shop.  Any  more  ?"  asked 
Camden,  turning. 

"No,  thanks,"  she  said.  "I'm  snoozy,  and  I'll 
run  around  to  my  chair  while  you  show  Mr. 
Grogan  where  the  doctor  is." 

"Come  along,  Grogan;  we're  dismissed." 

They  found  the  ship's  doctor  busily  engaged. 
His  patient  was  William  Clark  Russell,  half- 
morocco. 

"Game  leg,  doctor,"  announced  Camden. 
"This  young  man  wants  your  attention  for  a 
moment." 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"Wrench,  I  guess,"  said  William,  diffidently. 
He  was  a  poor  liar. 

"Let  me  have  a  look  at  it." 

William  rolled  up  his  trousers  leg  protestingly. 

"Why,  man  alive,  that's  no  wrench!  It's  black 
and  blue  underneath.  Something  struck  you 
there." 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that?"  cried 
William.  "All  I  know  is  I  went  down,  and  when 
I  got  up  I  limped.  I  was  wandering  around  the 
deck  late,  and  there  was  a  fair  wind." 

80 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Chair  broke  loose,  maybe." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  to  fuss  over.  It  '11  be  all 
right  by  night." 

"Well,  we'll  take  the  safe  side.  I'll  put  a  little 
liniment  on  it  and  give  it  a  turn  with  the  bandage." 

"Aw!" 

"I'm  running  this,"  retorted  the  doctor,  reach- 
ing into  the  medicine-rack. 

William  submitted,  but  with  poor  grace. 

Camden,  a  mixture  of  admiration  and  puzzle- 
ment in  his  eyes,  stared  at  the  Irishman.  By  and 
by  a  little  pucker  formed  above  his  nose.  The 
Irishman  was  lying,  and  lying  clumsily. 

"I  say,  Grogan,  what  really  happened  to  you 
last  night?" 

"Huh?" 

"You  didn't  stumble  over  anything  last  night, 
not  with  that  kind  of  a  bruise  as  the  result,"  de- 
clared Camden,  with  conviction.  "You're  hiding 
something.  What's  the  object?" 

As  for  that,  William  himself  was  not  quite  sure 
what  his  real  object  was.  He  possessed  the  innate 
Celtic  reluctance  to  whine  over  something  which 
could  not  be  remedied.  He  might  start  an  in- 
vestigation and  sing  hullabaloo,  but  doing  so 
would  not  restore  his  wallet  nor  take  away  the 
pain  in  his  knee-joint.  Had  money  changed  his 
point  of  view?  he  wondered.  Was  he  too  proud 
to  admit  that  thirty  dollars  was  to  him  a  large 
sum?  He  smiled  inwardly.  A  few  weeks  since 
he  never  would  have  permitted  an  affair  like  this 
to  sink  into  oblivion  for  lack  of  effort  on  his  part. 

81 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

The  ten  thousand  metropolitan  police  would  have 
been  notified,  along  with  William  Burns.  Per- 
haps he  misjudged  himself.  The  loss  of  money 
alone  would  not  have  started  him  on  the  hunt; 
but  it  went  conceivably  against  the  grain  of  the 
Grogans  to  let  a  man  hold  him  up  and  get  away 
with  it  scatheless.  Here  on  board  it  was  different, 
to  be  sure.  There  were  no  police.  If  he  notified 
the  purser,  the  poor  devils  in  the  steerage  would 
come  in  for  some  unpleasant  interrogations. 

He  stood  up  and  tried  the  joint.  "That's 
better.  The  liniment  is  cool." 

"You're  a  husky  chap,"  said  the  doctor,  admir- 
ingly, and  he  gave  William  a  friendly  tap  in  the 
small  of  the  back. 

"M'm!"  William  grunted. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Another  sore  spot,  I  guess." 

Camden  laughed.  "Make  him  strip,  doctor. 
Something  fishy  about  this  reluctance." 

"Aw,  I  tell  you  nothing  happened." 

"Strip,  young  man,"  ordered  the  doctor. 
"Come  on,  now;  we've  got  to  look  into  this.  I 
want  to  locate  that  grunt." 

Grumbling,  William  stripped  to  the  waist. 
Camden  whistled  softly. 

"Man,"  cried  the  doctor,  "you've  the  torso  of 
a  Sharkey!  H'm!  Slight  discoloration  over  the 
kidneys."  The  doctor  fondled  his  chin  thought- 
fully. "I  should  say,  Mr.  Grogan,  that  you'd  had 
a  bit  of  jiu-jitsu.  I  was  on  the  P.  &  O.  line  once. 
I  used  to  run  into  a  good  deal  of  it  among  the 

82 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

sailors.  They'd  get  into  trouble  on  shore  leave. 
You've  heard  of  jiu-jitsu?" 

"Sure." 

Camden's  admiration  turned  into  keen  interest. 

"Well,  Mr.  Grogan,  tell  us  what  happened." 

"I've  told  you,"  replied  William,  stubbornly. 

"Jiu-jitsu  all  right.  Toe  and  toe,  there's  not  a 
man  on  board  could  beat  you  if  you  had  any  kind 
of  a  show." 

"No  credit  to  me,"  replied  William,  anxious  to 
steer  this  keen-eyed  sawbones  off  the  track.  So 
it  had  been  jiu-jitsu ?  "I  was  born  this  way.  My 
old  man  could  carry  a  street-car  rail  with  his  bare 
hands.  When  I  was  younger  I  wasn't  afraid  of  a 
rough-and-tumble. ' ' 

"Had  you  been  drinking?" 

"Who,  me?     Nope." 

Camden  laughed. 

"Oh,  I've  heard  'em  laugh  before,  bo,"  said 
William.  "But  you  can't  lead  me  to  it  by  laugh- 
ing. Old  John  Barleycorn  and  me  don't  travel  in 
the  same  'bus.  Hops  on  a  Saturday  night,  once  in 
a  while,  but  I  never  wade  in  deep.  No  oath  on 
mother's  death-bed  stuff.  I  don't  like  the  smell 
of  red-eye.  Maybe  I  know  the  game  too  well. 
You  see,  I'm  healthy ;  I'm  full  of  life  as  a  bull-pup ! 
It's  a  fine  thing  to  take  a  deep  breath  in  the  morn- 
ing without  feeling  a  kink  in  the  small  of  your 
back.  That's  the  reason  I  don't  touch  the  stuff. 
I'll  tell  you,"  he  went  on  as  he  dressed.  "I'm 
Irish  and  red-headed,  and  fusel-oil's  a  bad  thing 
under  the  vest  of  that  breed.  Take  it  from  me. 

83 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Haven't  I  seen  'em  hunting  for  trouble  and  shed- 
ding the  briny  when  they  couldn't  find  it?  Sure. 
And  then  going  home  and  beating  up  the  old 
lady?  Sure  again.  An  Irishman  when  he's  drunk 
is  generally  fighting  drunk.  So  we  don't  speak 
beyond  a  mug  of  hops  once  in  a  while." 

"I  wish  I  could  say  that,"  Camden  confessed. 
"Many's  the  morning  I've  had  that  kink  in  the 
back.  So  you  won't  tell  us  what  happened  last 
night?" 

"Nope." 

"But  some  one  else  may  get  into  the  same  fix," 
protested  the  doctor. 

"Then  let  some  one  else  do  the  hollering." 

' '  You're  Irish,  all  right.     Do  you  box  ?" 

"Couple  of  times  the  week.  But,  believe  me, 
I've  a  lot  to  learn  in  the  fight  game.  I  thought  I 
had  all  the  frayed  ends.  Jiu-jitsu,  huh?  Well, 
when  I  get  to  Japan  I'll  have  a  look  at  that  stuff. 
It's  good."  William  laughed.  "I  ought  to  know. 
Do  you  know  anything  about  that  game,  Camden  ?" 

"I?     Lord,  no!    Feel  of  this  arm." 

William  felt  of  it.  "Pretty  soft.  But  that's 
nothing.  I've  known  pugs  who  looked  soft  and 
could  hit  with  the  kick  of  a  mule." 

"Don't  ever  point  that  fist  of  yours  my  way." 

"If  I  do,"  replied  William,  "you  beat  it.  I'm 
Irish,  red-headed,  and  none  too  particular  when 
I'm  mad." 

"I'll  beat  it,"  said  Camden,  seriously.  "Come 
and  have  a  pop  while  the  doctor  and  I  have  our 
pegs." 

84 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

The  three  of  them  trooped  out  of  the  doctor's 
cabin  and  headed  for  the  smoke-room.  As  Wil- 
liam drank  his  ginger-ale  a  brilliant  idea  popped 
into  his  head.  He  excused  himself  and  sought  an 
interview  with  the  purser. 

"Say,  any  Japs  on  board?" 

' '  Oh  yes ;  two  second-class  passengers. ' ' 

"How  old  are  they?"  asked  William,  carelessly. 

"Old!  Well,  I  should  say,  sir,  that  the  Jap  was 
about  seventy-odd  and  his  wife  somewhere  around 
that  figure." 

"Oh."  William's  face  clearly  expressed  his 
disappointment. 

"He  was  the  consul  at  New  Orleans,  retiring." 

"Uh-huh!  Thanks.  Now,  say,  this  is  on  the 
level;  have  you  seen  a  goat  with  a  bunch  of  bur- 
docks in  its  chin-whiskers  ambling  about?" 

"A  goat,  sir?  But  we  don't  permit  passengers 
to  bring  pets  aboard,  sir.  It's  against  the  com- 
pany's rules,"  said  the  purser,  with  lively  distress. 

"I  didn't  know  that,  or  I'd  left  this  goat  of  mine 
behind." 

"I  say,"  demanded  the  purser,  brightly,  "is 
this  a  bit  of  your  Yankee  spoofing?" 

"Spoofing?" 

"Yes.     Are  you  trying  to  jolly  me  up — what?" 

"Nope.  Some  one  got  my  goat  last  night,  and 
as  this  is  the  lost-and-found  shop,  I  thought  maybe 
you'd  wise  me  up  a  bit." 

The  purser  boomed  a  "Haw-haw!"  But  Wil- 
liam shook  his  head  sadly  and  turned  away. 
Still,  he  had  found  out  what  he  wanted  to  know. 

85 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

The  Japanese  consul,  aged  seventy,  would  be  the 
last  person  to  jump  on  his  back.  Doubtless  he  had 
been  robbed  by  some  deck-hand.  Thirty  dollars 
was  a  lot  of  money  to  lose,  but  whining  wouldn't 
bring  it  back.  So  he  came  to  the  conclusion  for  the 
second  time  to  let  the  matter  drop. 

I  forgot  to  mention  that  every  afternoon,  from 
tea-time  to  bugle,  William  went  to  school,  as  it 
were.  He  learned  quickly — the  things  that  in- 
terested him;  and  his  teacher  thoroughly  enjoyed 
the  labor.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  was 
having  a  lesson  every  day.  But  by  and  by  it 
dawned  upon  her  that  she  could  hold  him  only 
when  she  described  some  great  warrior  or  some 
tremendous  battle.  As  for  art,  architecture,  and 
general  literature,  William  listened  dutifully,  but 
the  information  went  into  one  ear  and  out  the 
other.  But  battle — "the  spot  where  So-and-so 
whaled  the  daylights  out  of  Watchamacallem!" 
Caesar,  Hannibal,  Alexander,  Napoleon,  Cellini, 
and  John  L.  Sullivan — those  were  the  boys! 

She  tried  to  get  him  interested  in  Morte 
Arihure,  but  failed  signally. 

"Aw,  nobody  ever  talked  like  that.  I'd  be  a 
fine  false-alarm,  wouldn't  I,  if  I  went  up  to  a  man, 
took  off  my  lid,  and  bowed  and  gave  him  that  kind 
of  con.  'Noble  sir,  it  pains  my  eyesight  and  my 
heart  sorrily,  but  I  am  about  to  hand  you  one  in 
the  slats.'  And  what  would  he  be  doing  while  I 
pulled  that  line  of  talk  ?  Good  night !" 

"I  don't  suppose  Nick  Carter  ever  talked  like 
that,"  she  said,  ironically. 

86 


THE   LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

' '  Not  so  you'd  notice  it.  The  noble  Nick  didn't 
waste  any  soft-soap.  'Hands  up,  Wall-eyed 
Mike;  the  jig  is  up.'  That's  Nick's  way.  This 
Cellini  chap  didn't  waste  any  guff  that  I  noticed. 
When  he  saw  a  head  he  hit  it." 

She  laughed.  So  far  she  had  not  found  this 
amazing  Irishman  backward  in  the  matter  of  re- 
torts. He  usually  gave  as  good  as  he  got.  She 
liked  him.  For  all  his  bewildering  lingo,  he  pos- 
sessed that  rare  attribute  called  personality.  He 
was  so  breezy,  so  strong  and  active,  that  those 
about  seemed  to  imbue  some  of  the  animal  spirits 
which  radiated  from  him.  When  she  was  with 
him  she  experienced  a  tingle  and  a  zest  in  life. 
His  voice  and  eyes  were  filled  with  electric  fluids. 
It  was  too  bad  that  he  hadn't  had  the  right  chance 
in  life.  When  she  compared  him  with  Camden,  it 
struck  her  forcibly  that  the  comparison  was  in  the 
Irishman's  favor.  Camden  soothed  her,  but  his 
very  soothing  qualities  seemed  to  arouse  a  sub- 
conscious irritation  in  her. 

By  constant  reprimand  she  had  succeeded  in 
drawing  William  partially  out  of  the  morass  of 
slang  into  which  habit  and  association  had  thrown 
him.  At  a  word  from  her  he  would  have  stopped 
smoking,  worn  his  dress-suit  at  breakfast,  forsworn 
his  meat.  But  invariably,  once  he  became  excited 
or  deeply  in  earnest,  the  gates  would  burst  open. 
Never  by  any  hap  were  his  transgressions  vulgar. 
She  was  well  enough  informed  to  know  that  his 
phrases  had  been  conned  from  the  sporting  pages 
of  the  newspapers — baseball,  the  prize-ring,  and 
7  87 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

the  race-tracks,  all  morally  harmless,  but  intel- 
lectually corrupt. 

The  day  before  they  reached  Gibraltar,  Italy  as 
a  lesson  was  about  finished.  Of  all  the  splendid 
names  he  had  heard,  only  three  remained  clearly 
defined:  Michelangelo,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and 
Cellini.  He  felt  genuinely  depressed  that  all  the 
others  had  been  dropped  by  the  wayside.  And 
yet,  if  he  had  confided  in  her,  doubtless  she  would 
have  told  him  that  to  know  a  little  of  the  lives  of 
these  three  men  was  in  itself  a  liberal  education. 
The  truth  is,  aside  from  being  great  artists,  the 
three  had  also  been  great  fighters,  and  that  is 
why  their  names  and  deeds  stuck  in  William  Gro- 
gan's  head. 

"Italy!  Say,  that  makes  me  think.  I've  got 
an  old  friend  in  Naples — Tommaso  Malfi.  He  and 
his  wife  kept  the  fruit-store  next  to  the  shop.  I 
used  to  play  with  his  kiddies  noontimes.  And 
many's  the  dish  of  spaghetti  I've  eaten  with  the 
family.  He  made  his  pile,  six  or  seven  hundred, 
sold  out  to  Cipriano,  and  hiked  for  the  old  country. 
He'll  be  glad  to  see  little  Willie  Grogan.  He  used 
to  call  me  Guglielmo  Grogano,  for  sport.  He  tried 
to  teach  me  some  of  his  lingo,  but  I  couldn't  bat 
over  .017." 

"Beg  pardon,  Mr.  Grogan,"  said  a  voice  at  his 
elbow.  It  belonged  to  the  purser.  "I  found  this 
wallet  of  yours." 

William  seized  it  eagerly. 

"Everything  there?"  asked  the  purser. 

"Ye-ah.    Where'd  you  find  it?" 
88 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Rather  curious  place.  On  the  floor  of  my 
office.  Some  one  had  tossed  it  in  through  the 
port." 

"Well,  say,  I  never  expected  to  see  this  again." 
William  peered  into  the  flaps.  "Yes,  sir,  and 
there's  Mr.  Goat.  Thanks." 

"Why,"  began  the  school-teacher,  when  the 
purser  had  gone,  "I  didn't  know  that  you  had  lost 
anything." 

"I  didn't  lose  it,"  replied  William,  balancing 
the  wallet  on  his  palm,  a  speculative  light  in  his 
eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Somebody  took  it  from  me  by  force.  Pretty 
smooth  Indian,  if  you  want  to  know.  The  doctor 
says  it's  jiu-jitsu.  Jumped  on  my  back,  and  I 
didn't  have  a  ghost  of  a  show.  That  accounts 
for  that  game  leg  of  mine." 

"But  why  should  the  thief  return  the  wallet?" 

"That's  exactly  what  William  Grogan  is  won- 
dering." 


CHAPTER  VII 

WILLIAM  was  confronted  with  a  genuine 
mystery,  and  he  wasn't  sure  that  he  liked 
it.  He  viewed  the  affair  from  all  available  angles, 
but  he  could  not  find  shallow  water  anywhere.  A 
man,  possessed  of  a  scientific  knowledge  of  anato- 
my, had  laid  out  William  Grogan  as  nice  as  you 
please  and  taken  his  wallet;  then  he  had  given 
it  back,  indirectly;  but  that  didn't  matter — the 
act,  not  the  method,  was  the  important  thing. 
It  wasn't  a  question  of  belated  conscience.  The 
man  hadn't  gone  through  that  series  of  gymnastics 
for  the  mere  sport  of  it.  It  was  possible,  however, 
that  the  hold-up  man  had  tackled  the  wrong  indi- 
vidual. But  even  then,  thirty  dollars  wouldn't 
grow  any  smaller  for  that.  William  decided  that 
it  was  not  the  work  of  a  professional.  Fat  chance 
for  that  breed  on  board  the  Ajax,  where  the  wealth 
of  the  passengers  consisted  of  small  bills,  few  and 
slim  letters  of  credit.  People  who  could  afford  to 
travel  on  their  own,  without  the  tender  solicitude 
of  Thomas  Cook,  had  real  bank-accounts.  Finally 
he  gave  up  the  puzzle.  There  was  neither  head 
nor  tail  to  it.  Anyhow,  he  had  thirty  to  blow  in 
when  he  landed  at  Gibraltar. 

Having  resigned  himself  to  the  loss,  the  recovery 
90 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

was  like  finding  it;  and  eternally  the  poor  never 
save  anything  they  find.  William  had  mapped 
out  a  plan  for  spending  only  five  dollars  in  each 
port  or  town  he  visited;  spending-money,  you 
understand;  five  in  Gibraltar,  five  in  Naples,  and 
so  on  until  he  landed  in  San  Francisco.  He  had 
written  down  this  budget  in  detail  and  had  sworn 
to  keep  within  it.  By  this  method  of  economy  he 
would  arrive  in  America  with  something  over  a 
thousand  dollars.  But  to-morrow  he  would  spend 
thirty  dollars  in  Gibraltar. 

As  he  was  leaving  the  purser's  office  the  next 
morning,  after  having  wisely  deposited  his  letter 
of  credit,  he  heard  some  one  exclaim,  "Spain!" 

He  ran  out  to  the  port  rail.  Blue  sky  and  blue 
sea,  and  a  thin  ribbon  of  salmon-tinted  rock  in 
between;  that  was  all  he  could  see.  But  there 
was  some  peculiar  magic  in  the  sight;  it  stirred  a 
thousand  little  cells  in  his  head.  Yonder  was  the 
Spain  of  the  Armada,  of  the  golden  galleons  and 
black-browed  pirates,  of  mighty  conquest  and 
quick  decay;  and  here  was  William  Grogan,  news- 
boy, messenger,  apprentice,  plumber,  seeing  it 
through  his  very  own  eyes.  One  was  a  great 
historical  fact;  the  other  was  a  plain,  down- 
right miracle. 

Not  until  after  lunch  would  they  raise  Gib- 
raltar. Spain  was  all  right,  but  its  coast  suggested 
spooks,  vanished  splendors,  things  which  trembled 
nebulously  on  the  far  horizon  of  memory,  therefore 
unsatisfactorily.  What  he  wanted  to  see  was 
something  which  had  not  only  been  great,  but  still 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

was;  and  this  would  be  the  Rock;  valor  and  war, 
grim  battle-ships,  cannon,  flags,  the  sunshine  on 
gun-barrels,  and  the  lively  racket  of  rolling  drums. 
He  was  tremendously  eager  to  see  Gibraltar,  and 
he  had  a  reason  singular  among  his  several  hundred 
fellow-passengers.  Somewhere  in  the  little  his- 
torical military  cemetery  he  would  find  the  name  of 
Grogan.  Hadn't  the  Grogans  died  all  over  Europe 
and  Asia  and  Africa,  from  the  Napoleonic  wars 
down  to  the  Transvaal  shindy? 

As  soon  as  the  salmon-tinted  coast-line  became 
monotonous,  he  drew  away  from  the  rail  and 
searched  the  decks  for  his  school-teacher,  but 
could  not  find  her.  Doubtless  she  was  preening 
up  for  the  jaunt  ashore. 

The  daughter  of  a  man  who  had  died  in  poverty 
— the  single  rift  in  the  fog  which  enveloped  her. 
I  must  confess  that  William  laid  sly  if  innocent 
little  traps,  all  of  which  she  walked  around  serene- 
ly. That  all  was  not  well  with  her  he  had  been 
assured  frequently.  The  ruminative  somberness 
which  at  times  overcast  her  countenance — at  mo- 
ments when  she  thought  she  was  unobserved — con- 
vinced William  that  she  was  unhappy. 

There  were  no  rings  on  her  fingers;  but  William 
knew  that  married  women  no  longer  wore  their 
wedding-rings  year  in  and  year  out  as  in  his 
mother's  day.  Was  she  running  away  from  some- 
thing? 

Once  he  had  tiptoed  around  to  his  chair — it  was 
at  the  hour  when  she  generally  dozed — to  find  her 
staring  wide-eyed  at  a  little  chamois  bag  such  as 

92 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

women  carried  their  jewels  in.  At  the  sight  of  him 
she  gave  a  little  gasp  and  thrust  the  bag  into  the 
bosom  of  her  dress.  She  smiled  almost  at  once; 
but  William  would  have  preferred  a  frown.  Was 
there  anything  in  that  chamois  bag  she  was  afraid 
he  might  see?  The  haste  with  which  she  had 
striven  to  hide  it  was  not  normal. 

She  was  only  twenty-two.  Youth  ought  to 
have  no  mysteries. 

Dismissing  these  unpleasant  cogitations,  Wil- 
liam strolled  around  to  the  starboard  side.  Lean- 
ing over  the  rail  were  his  two  ancients.  For  once 
they  were  not  arguing.  As  there  was  space  in 
between  them,  William  shouldered  in,  smiling  as 
usual.  He  was  not  above  hectoring  Greenwood,  a 
flicker  of  the  old-time  gamin  in  his  heart. 

In  his  way  William  was  growing  fond  of  them 
both,  for  he  could  appreciate  that  these  two  lonely 
old  men  were  heroes  in  their  quiet,  undemonstra- 
tive manner.  One  had  gone  into  the  very  heart 
of  China,  in  the  days  when  such  an  exploit  neces- 
sitated the  taking  of  one's  life  in  the  hand.  And 
for  what?  To  verify  a  bit  of  Sanskrit,  whatever 
that  was!  And  the  other  had  crossed  the  Hima- 
layas into  Tibet  for  the  prayer-scroll  and  death- 
mask  of  a  Lama!  William  was  still  in  the  dark  as 
to  what  benefit,  if  any,  humanity  derived  from 
such  adventures;  but  he  could  readily  grasp  that 
these  two  played  a  great  game  where  the  skirts  of 
death  could  always  be  heard  rustling. 

"This  is  the  life!"  he  said. 

1  'You  like  the  sea?" 

93 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Sure  I  do.  But  ain't  she  the  cheerful  old  liar, 
though?  Look  at  her  now — mild  as  a  cat  with  a 
platter  of  cream.  But  when  she  gets  her  back  up, 
believe  me!" 

"Know  anything  about  it?"  asked  Greenwood, 
the  crotchety  one.  For,  while  William  was  not 
above  hectoring  him,  he  on  his  part  was  not  above 
laying  traps  for  William's  ignorance. 

"Only  what  I  can  see  on  top." 

"Then  what  is  down  below  does  not  interest 
you?" 

"It  wouldn't  if  I  was  anywhere  near  it,"  coun- 
tered William,  shrewdly  scenting  a  trap. 

The  old  fellow  shrugged,  but  his  companion 
smiled.  And  straightway  he  began  to  uncover 
the  sea's  floor  to  William.  His  descriptions  were 
simple  and  untechnical.  He  liked  this  freckle- 
faced  boy,  with  his  boundless  vitality,  his  fresh 
enthusiasm,  his  unfailing  cheerfulness. 

* ' All  new  stuff  to  me, ' '  William  admitted.  "But 
I  thought  that  you  dug  up  tombs  and  the  like?" 

"I  do;  but  to  all  men  of  science  there  is  nothing 
more  fascinating  than  the  floor  of  the  sea.  It  is 
because  there  are  a  thousand  mysteries  down  there 
none  of  us  shall  ever  solve.  What  would  interest 
you  most  to  see  in  the  world?" 

"Why,  I'd  like  to  take  a  peek  at  all  the  battle- 
fields first;  and  then,  after  that,  I  shouldn't  mind 
going  back  to  Babylon  and  digging  for  Shal- 
maneser's  bat-bag." 

"You  might  at  least  learn  something,"  said  old 
grumpy. 

94 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"No  doubt  he  would,  Arthur.  You  mustn't 
forget  that  once  you  were  his  age." 

"Yes,  yes,  Henrik;  but  long  before  his  age  I  was 
always  about  with  my  hammer." 

"And,  believe  me,  that  little  hammer  don't 
seem  to  be  among  the  missing,"  said  William, 
mildly.  "You've  had  it  out  for  me  ever  since  we 
came  on  board." 

The  two  old  fellows  looked  at  him  rather  blank- 
ly. They  did  not  understand;  so  William  went 
into  details,  and  to  these  details  he  added  some 
other  interesting  items. 

"I  was  a  newsboy  once.  I  slept  in  areaways, 
fought  and  scrapped  for  my  pennies.  Don't  you 
think  it's  a  pretty  good  sign  that  I'm  taking  this 
trip  around  the  world?  How  should  I  know  who 
this  guy  Shalmaneser  was?  I  never  went  to 
school  after  I  was  nine.  You  look  on  me  as  a 
blamed  idiot.  Well,  maybe  I  am.  But  did  it 
ever  occur  to  you  that  the  men  who  built  this  old 
gondola,  plate  by  plate,  rivet  by  rivet,  didn't 
know  any  more  about  Shalmaneser  than  Kelly's 
goat?  My  interest  is  in  live  things,  yours  in 
dead.  Yet  my  work  is  of  more  use  to  human 
beings  than  yours  is." 

"Indeed!  And  what  is  your  wjrk?"  snapped 
Greenwood,  not  particularly  relisning  William's 
directness. 

"I'm  a  plumber." 

"I  judged  it  might  be  something  on  that  order." 

"Is — that — so?  Ye-ah;  I'm  a  plumber.  I 
help  keep  out  dirt  and  disease;  I  put  in  bath- 

95 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

tubs,  lay  water-mains,  sewers,  and  do  the  job  well. 
Did  you  ever  stop  to  think,  when  you  turned  a  tap 
on  at  the  top  of  the  forty-story  building,  that  it 
was  a  nifty  bit  of  work  to  get  it  up  there?  What's 
the  Himalayas  to  that?"  Inwardly  William 
added.  "Now,  back  away  from  that,  old  stick-in- 
the-mud!" 

Old  stick-in-the-mud  said  never  a  word,  but  his 
companion  spoke  up. 

"Young  man,  thanks  for  the  rebuke.  Each 
man  has  his  niche,  his  work.  And  what  matters 
so  long  as  he  does  it  well?  Don't  you  say  so, 
Arthur?" 

"Well,  yes,  Henrik.  Perhaps  I'm  a  bit  im- 
patient at  times.  And  maybe  I  judged  Mr. 
Grogan  as  an  idle  young  man.  Suppose  we  call  a 
truce  and  try  to  understand  each  other  better?" 

"Sure,"  agreed  William,  rather  proud  of  having 
tamed  the  old  fire-eater. 

After  a  little  silence,  Clausen  spoke  up,  a  thrill 
in  his  voice. 

"There's  Africa,  Arthur!" 

"Where?"  cried  William.  Africa,  King  Solo- 
mon's Mines,  She,  and  Allan  Quartermain!  What 
was  more  natural  than  that  he  should  conjure  up 
these  mythical  tales,  which  was  all  the  history  of 
Africa  he  knew  anything  about?  "Where  is  it?" 

"See  that  dun-colored  cloud?  Well,  that's  the 
foreland." 

"Say,  I'd  like  to  see  Africa  the  way  you  two 
have.  Ever  read  King  Solomon's  Mines?"  Wil- 
liam asked,  shyly. 

96 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Oh  yes.     A  mighty  readable  fairy-story." 

"Well,  say!  Next  thing  you'll  be  telling  me 
you've  read  Old  Sleuth." 

Old  stick-in-the-mud  chuckled.  "Well,  maybe 
I  have." 

"Good  Lord!     Now  I  know  you're  human." 

Laughter  has  dissolved  more  enmities,  dissi- 
pated more  gloom,  welded  more  friendships  than 
all  your  philosophies  bunched  together.  And 
when  this  odd  trio  caught  their  breaths,  they  were 
friends. 

Immediately  one  began  to  talk  about  Africa, 
about  deserts  and  sand-buried  cities,  the  wonders 
of  K  antiquity,  adventure  upon  adventure,  quite 
as  remarkable  as  anything  William  had  ever  read. 

The  first  bugle  for  luncheon  took  him  to  the 
port  side  again.  He  had  forgotten  all  about 
Gibraltar! 

"Amiable  Irishman,  Arthur." 

"Yes,  he  is,  Henrik.  And  I  rather  liked  the 
way  he  brought  about  that  bit  relative  to  the 
water-pipes." 

"Aren't  they  a  wonderful  people?  Did  we  ever 
go  anywhere  without  finding  one  of  them  building 
something — railroads,  bridges,  canals,  harbors; 
working  and  fighting  and  letting  the  other  man 
carry  off  the  money  and  the  glory  ?  It's  the  game, 
Arthur;  you  and  I  know.  It  isn't  Mr.  Grogan's 
lack  of  education  that  irritates  you;  it's  his  youth 
and  all  the  game  that's  before  him." 

"Perhaps  that  is  it." 

From  the  jetty  tender  to  the  old  gun-galleries 
97 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

and  back  again,  from  this  crooked  street  to  that, 
past  old  landmarks  bristling  with  deeds  of  valor, 
William  and  his  school-teacher  wandered.  After 
coming  down  from  the  echoing-galleries  the  two 
had  drifted  away  from  the  others  and  gone  in- 
vestigating on  their  own  account.  It  was  impos- 
sible for  her  not  to  catch  some  of  his  enthusiasm  for 
everything,  the  motley,  picturesque  Africans,  the 
Tommies  in  their  smart  jackets,  the  swart,  stocky 
Spaniards,  the  donkeys  plodding  across  the  neutral 
ground  into  Spain,  the  gray  monsters  in  the  har- 
bor, the  real  Rock  which  appeared  so  peaceful 
and  yet  which  they  knew  to  be  so  sinisterly  alive. 

Frequently  she  heard  him  murmur,  and  perhaps 
he  was  quite  unconscious  that  he  spoke  aloud: 
"And  there  is  Gibraltar,  and  here  is  little  old 
Willie  Grogan!"  She  understood.  A  dream, 
which  once  had  been  numbered  among  the  impos- 
sible things,  had  come  true.  And  when  he  found 
the  grave  in  the  military  cemetery — the  grave  of  a 
granduncle  of  his  father's — he  held  his  chin  higher 
and  carried  his  shoulders  a  bit  stiffer  thereafter. 
He  had  now  a  proprietary  interest  in  the  Rock — 
blood  of  his  blood  had  soaked  the  sparse  soil  of  it. 

No  pride  like  that  which  William  innocently 
took  in  this  discovery  is  ever  harmful.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is  one  of  those  sublime  emotional 
tonics  which  revivifies  manhood,  renews  the  iron 
in  the  corpuscle,  and  puts  the  conscience  in  order. 

She  had  some  difficulty  in  preventing  him  from 
squandering  his  money  upon  useless  gimcracks; 
but  in  spite  of  her  vigilance  he  succeeded  in  buying 

98 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

several  strings  of  coral  beads  (made  of  some  kind 
of  gum)  and  a  spangled  shawl  he  intended  to  take 
back  to  the  Widow  Hanlon,  his  landlady.  He  was 
soon  to  learn  that  he  was  entering  a  world  of  shop- 
keepers whose  knowledge  of  truth  was  based  upon 
hearsay  only. 

When  they  returned  to  the  ship  she  was  tired 
and  happy  and  he  was  only  happy.  He  grumbled 
a  little  because  he  could  not  wander  through  the 
town  at  night. 

Camden,  whom  they  had  both  forgotten,  was 
leaning  over  the  rail  as  the  tender  drew  alongside. 
He  soon  picked  out  William,  quite  as  easily  as  he 
would  have  picked  out  a  poppy  in  a  wheat-field. 
He  watched  the  two  thoughtfully.  He  saw  Wil- 
liam catch  her  by  the  arm  and  swing  her  to  the 
platform  of  the  ladder.  It  was  one  of  those  feats 
of  strength  that  are  not  impressive  because  accom- 
plished without  apparent  effort. 

"Gad!  the  man  is  a  Hercules!  I'd  like  to  see 
him  in  a  real  fight,  a  rough-and-tumble  where  his 
life  depended  upon  it.  I'd  give  a  year  of  my  life 
to  witness  something  like  that." 

When  William  dressed  for  dinner  that  night  he 
had  the  cabin  to  himself.  He  studied  his  face  in 
the  little  mirror.  To  him  that  face  appeared  ut- 
terly hopeless.  Red  hair  which  wouldn't  stay  put 
unless  he  plastered  it  down,  ears  like  pie-plant 
leaves,  skin  like  a  German  trout's,  neck  like  a 
stevedore's.  .  .  .  What  was  the  use?  He  would 
always  be  a  plumber.  What  woman  would  think 
of  marrying  a  yap  with  a  phiz  like  his  ?  Even  the 

99 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

bellhops  could  see  through  the  disguise;  the  dress- 
suit  didn't  hide  anything. 

So  here  we  arrive  at  last,  without  further  dilly- 
dallying. William  was  in  love.  The  fact  that 
until  now  his  looks  had  never  worried  him  deeply 
was  sufficient  proof  of  the  state  of  his  mind.  The 
moment  a  man  wants  to  be  handsome  he  is  riding 
for  his  fall.  No  man  cares  a  rap  for  mere  beauty 
among  his  kind;  he  wants  nothing  more  than 
strength  or  cleverness.  But  let  him  think  woman, 
and  at  once  he  desires  the  beauty  of  Antinous,  the 
strength  of  Hercules,  and  the  wisdom  of  Nestor. 
You  will  no  doubt  carefully  note  that  Antinous  is 
given  the  precedence.  It  is  not  that  man  wishes 
to  shed  these  illustrious  qualities  upon  woman; 
it  is  wholly  selfish;  he  merely  wants  to  be  well 
supplied  with  bait. 

I  often  wonder  what  Nature  was  about  when  she 
gave  all  the  gorgeous  feathers  to  the  male  birds  and 
so  few  to  the  female.  Certainly  she  did  not  follow 
out  this  idea  when  she  modeled  the  human  race. 

William's  school-teacher,  however,  did  not  think 
him  ugly.  To  her  he  was  only  rugged  and  clean 
and  kindly  and  amusing.  She  thought  his  eyes 
beautiful.  His  pug-nose,  his  generous  mouth,  even 
his  freckles,  all  seemed  to  move  with  but  one 
object,  with  but  one  purpose,  to  accentuate  the 
beauty  and  expression  of  his  eyes.  I  might  go  on 
and  say  that  she  was  falling  in  love  with  him,  but 
I  should  have  to  deny  it  later.  She  had  her 
dreams  even  as  he  had  his,  but  William  Grogan  had 
no  place  in  them. 

100 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Well,  toward  such  a  reef  the  guileless  William 
was  steering  his  argosy  of  love. 

Late  that  night,  when  the  upper  deck  was  de- 
serted, the  girl  stole  out  of  her  cabin  and  walked 
for  a  mile  or  more  around  the  deck-houses.  The 
sea  was  calm;  there  was  not  the  slightest  roll  to 
the  ship.  Far  away  to  starboard  she  saw  the  sail 
of  a  felucca  as  it  tacked  into  the  moonlight.  She 
paused  at  the  rail  and  watched  it  until  it  vanished 
as  suddenly  as  it  had  appeared. 

Presently  she  looked  up  toward  the  brilliant 
moon  and  began  to  pray. 

Why  do  prayers  seem  ineffectual  unless  uttered 
aloud?  Is  it  because  in  silent  prayer  evil  is  still 
a  force,  strong  enough  to  break  the  thread,  and  we 
need  the  sound  of  our  voice  to  give  us  confidence 
and  fervor? 

"Dear  God,  make  me  strong.  Take  out  of  my 
heart  the  evil  longings.  Give  me  strength  always 
to  be  good.  Let  me  not  covet  that  which  is  not 
mine.  Clean  my  heart  and  put  temptation  behind 
me.  Amen!" 

She  bent  her  head  to  the  rail. 

William  Grogan,  standing  behind  a  ventilator, 
a  perfectly  innocent  eavesdropper,  never  forgot 
that  simple  prayer.  He  took  off  his  cap  reverently 
and  tiptoed  away.  But  he  carried  with  him  the 
truth;  the  thunderclap  rang  in  his  ears.  He 
loved  this  school-teacher  of  his  with  all  the  ardor 
of  his  Irish  soul. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WILLIAM  had  picked  up  his  odds  and  ends  of 
life  in  the  streets,  and  these,  as  I  have  already 
observed,  had  formed  the  basis  of  a  cynical  philoso- 
phy. But  to  offset  this  he  possessed  an  imagina- 
tion as  boundless  and  irresponsible  as  the  perspec- 
tives of  a  Chinese  painter.  He  knew  nearly  all 
there  was  to  know  about  mankind,  and  enough  of 
woman  to  be  on  his  guard;  but  he  was  always 
soaring  to  heaven  and  tumbling  back  to  earth,  and 
so  his  philosophy  was  less  a  staff  to  lean  on  than  an 
air-cushion  for  his  frequent  bumps. 

When  he  reached  the  forward  rail,  under  the 
bridge,  he  stopped.  His  mind  was  awhirl.  The 
two  episodes,  the  prayer  and  the  kindling  of  his 
heart,  had  shaken  him  profoundly.  How  he  want- 
ed her!  How  every  drop  of  blood  in  his  body 
leaped  at  the  thought  of  her!  And  yet  there  was 
lacking  that  burning  primordial  desire  to  break 
down  all  barriers,  brush  aside  all  obstacles,  crush 
anything  that  stood  between  him  and  this  woman. 
Why?  He  saw  clearly  the  immeasurable  gulf. 
He  knew  that  in  these  days  men  did  not  take  their 
women  under  their  arm  and  run  away  with  them. 
He  was  like  that  lantern  up  there  at  the  mast- 
head; and  she  was  like  one  of  those  stars  beyond. 

1 02 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

There  was  no   earthly  way  of  bridging   such  a 
gulf. 

Evil  and  temptation ;  the  words  recurred  to  him. 
What  had  she  done?  From  what  had  she  fled? 
Who  and  what  was  she,  after  all?  That  for  three 
years  she  had  been  a  school-teacher  was  an  es- 
tablished fact.  But  before  that?  Was  there  a 
husband  in  the  coil  somewhere  ?  Evil  and  tempta- 
tion. 

A  fine  future  for  him;  and  that  dream  of  his 
about  a  home  of  his  own,  a  garden  to  play  in,  a 
wife  and  a  couple  of  kids,  was  dissipating  like  that 
streamer  of  fog  off  the  port  bow. 

Up  from  under  these  bitter  thoughts  came  the 
old  superstition.  He  found  that  he  still  adhered 
to  the  belief  that  his  presence  on  board  here  was  a 
calculated  move  in  the  checker-game  of  fate. 
Some  day  she  might  need  him,  and  when  that  day 
came  William  Grogan  would  not  be  found  wanting. 

Far  up  in  the  crow's-nest  he  saw  the  dim  outline 
of  the  lookout.  He  heard  the  "All's  well!"  It 
startled  him.  Then  his  back  stiffened.  Who 
could  say?  That  might  be  a  message  to  him  as 
well  as  to  the  man  at  the  wheel  above.  .  .  .  Aw, 
was  he  going  to  let  those  pipe-dreams  of  his  carry 
him  up  again,  only  to  slam  him  down  ?  Not  all  his 
philosophy,  such  as  it  was,  nor  the  recollection  of 
his  buffets  and  how  he  had  taken  them  up- 
standing, nor  the  knowledge  that  financially  he 
need  no  longer  worry,  sufficed  to  ease  a  corner  of 
this  dull  weight  of  misery.  He  had  fallen  in  love 
with  a  woman  who  was  not  his  kind. 
8  103 


THE  LUCK  OF^THE  IRISH 

She  was  good,  anyhow.  No  woman  could 
pray  like  that  and  not  be  good.  It  was  just  a 
simple  prayer  of  a  soul  in  trouble.  His  clean 
heart  and  his  cynical  knowledge  fought  over  this 
conclusion.  It  is  impossible  for  a  man  to  let  sordid- 
ness  touch  the  skirts  of  the  woman  he  loves.  He 
must  idealize  her  and  put  her  on  a  pedestal,  for 
man  cannot  worship  anything  not  above  his  own 
level.  It  is  a  healthy  sign  for  all  that  the  world  is 
full  of  wabbly  pedestals.  It  is  a  phase  of  that 
indefinable  longing  to  find  something  by  which  to 
pull  ourselves  upward.  In  other  words,  we  still 
make  little  gods  of  our  own. 

"I'm  a  poor  simp,"  he  murmured,  looking  up  at 
the  moon  and  finding  it  far  over  the  other  side  of 
the  ship.  He  pulled  out  his  watch — the  old  fat 
silver  timepiece  which  had  been  his  father's. 
Half  after  two ! 

He  remembered  reading  somewhere  about  the 
glamour  of  love.  There  was  nothing  to  it ;  it  was 
all  doubt  and  then  some  more  doubt.  He  was 
very  unhappy.  In  this  love-game  he  had  no  as- 
sets, only  liabilities. 

It  was  time  for  bed.  As  he  entered  the  port 
companionway  she  came  into  the  starboard,  and 
they  met  on  the  first  landing. 

"Why!"  she  exclaimed,  startled  at  the  sight  of 
him. 

"I  couldn't  sleep,  somehow,"  he  said. 

"Nor  could  I." 

"I  guess  we  overdid  a  little  in  Gibraltar,"  he 
suggested. 

104 


"I  never  thought  of  that,"  she  replied,  listlessly. 

Together  they  went  down  to  the  main  deck. 
Their  cabins  were  on  opposite  sides  of  the  ship. 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Grogan,"  she  said  as  she 
turned  into  her  corridor. 

We  are  eternally  diving  into  the  crowds  for  our 
Bayards,  our  Jeanne  d'Arcs,  and  all  the  while  our 
elbows  are  rubbing  theirs. 

"Goodnight." 

As  he  repeated  this  empty  phrase  he  pondered 
over  the  lack  of  desire  on  his  part  to  sweep  her  up 
into  his  arms.  Where  was  that  fire  he  had  so  often 
read  about?  One  thing  was  certain:  as  he  lifted 
himself  into  his  berth  he  vowed  never  again  to 
read  a  novel  with  a  woman  in  it. 

He  rose  the  next  morning  in  time  to  reach  the 
dining-room  before  the  doors  closed.  He  was 
very  much  astonished  to  find  that  his  appetite  was 
as  normal  as  ever.  Nothing  seemed  to  work  out 
according  to  schedule.  All  the  people  he  had  ever 
heard  speak  on  the  subject  adhered  to  the  supposi- 
tion that  when  a  person  was  in  love  that  person 
lost  his  or  her  appetite.  At  the  old  boarding- 
house  this  was  one  of  the  set  table  jests.  "You're 
not  eating  anything  to-night,  Mr.  Haberdasher. 
In  love?"  How  they  all  would  "guy"  the  object 
of  this  solicitude ! 

Very  remote  that  boarding-house  seemed  just 
now,  with  its  shop-girls  and  warehouse-clerks 
and  their  sensible  views  of  life,  their  dogged  pluck, 
their  amazing  economies.  To  address  one  as 
"Mister"  or  "Miss"  was  considered  to  be  the 

105 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

last  word  in  irony.  Petty  squabbles  were  frequent 
enough;  but  let  one  of  them  get  into  financial 
difficulties,  and  every  poor,  slim  purse  came  forth. 
Could  he  ever  go  back  there?  He  doubted  it. 
Somehow  his  horizon  had  broadened  mysteriously. 
He  had  stepped  out  of  the  humdrum,  and  he  knew 
that  only  a  reverse  in  fortune  could  force  him  back 
to  it.  It  was  in  no  sense  snobbery.  It  was  simply 
that  these  old  acquaintances  had  dropped  out  of 
his  orbit,  or,  to  be  exact,  he  had  been  switched  into 
a  new  one  and  had  not  quite  steadied  himself  to 
the  speed  of  it. 

He  went  to  his  chair,  hoping  to  find  her  and 
yet  relieved  when  he  found  her  not.  He  was  curi- 
ous to  learn  how  the  sight  of  her  would  affect  him 
in  the  daylight,  now  that  he  was  assured  that  he 
loved  her,  but  there  was  a  generous  portion  of 
dread  mixed  with  this  curiosity.  She  was  up  and 
about  somewhere,  "for  some  new  books  lay  on  her 
steamer  rug.  Baedekers;  he  knew  that  flaming 
red  cover  tolerably  well  by  now. 

To  take  a  book  from  the  chair  of  a  friend  during 
that  friend's  temporary  absence  could  in  no  wise 
be  looked  upon  as  an  indiscretion.  William  went 
over  to  the  girl's  chair  and  picked  up  the  three 
volumes:  Southern  Italy,  Central  Italy,  and  North- 
ern Italy.  Idly  he  turned  the  cover  of  one  book. 
On  the  fly-leaf  he  discovered  a  bit  of  writing — 
"Ruth  Warren,  her  book."  The  two  other  vol- 
umes contained  this  name  also.  The  signatures 
had  been  written  quite  recently,  probably  that 
very  morning.  No  doubt  this  was  her  real  name. 

1 06 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

The  purser  had  these  books  for  sale.  It  would 
be  a  simple  matter  to  make  an  inquiry. 

Yes,  Miss  Jones  had  bought  three  guide-books 
that  morning. 

"Anything  turned  up  about  that  wallet  of 
mine?" 

"No,  Mr.  Grogan.  That  has  turned  out  to  be 
something  of  a  mystery.  No  one  has  reported 
having  found  it." 

"Well,  I  haven't  lost  any  sleep  over  it,"  said 
William. 

"Ruth  Warren."  When  she  had  written  that 
in  those  books  she  had  forgotten;  either  that  or 
she  no  longer  cared.  And  if  she  didn't  care,  the 
past  could  not  be  very  dark.  He  caught  himself 
up  sharply.  Always  ready  to  go  soaring,  always 
ready  to  make  excuses.  She  had  written  her  true 
name  in  an  unguarded  moment. 

As  a  detective  William  might  have  made  a 
passable  success.  If  his  logical  deductions  weren't 
up  to  the  approved  mark,  he  sometimes  made 
shrewd  guesses.  If  she  had  told  the  truth  about 
her  father  being  a  professor  and  a  man  of  science, 
it  would  not  be  difficult  to  prove  it.  So  he  pro- 
ceeded to  hunt  up  one  of  his  ancients,  whom  he 
found  in  the  smoke-room,  deep  in  one  of  George 
Eber's  Egyptian  tales. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Greenwood,"  said  Wil- 
liam, sitting  down  beside  the  old  man. 

"Ah,  good  morning,  Mr.  Grogan."  The  arche- 
ologist  pushed  aside  his  Tauchnitz  reluctantly. 

"Say,  I  was  wondering  if  you  could  answer  a 
107 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

question  of  mine.  You  know  all  about  these 
scientific  guys.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  professor 
named  Warren?" 

"Warren?"  ruminatively.  "Why,  yes.  Pro- 
fessor Warren  wrote  a  capital  book  on  gravities." 

"Is  he  alive?" 

"No;  I  believe  he  has  been  dead  some  years. 
If  I'm  not  mistaken  you'll  find  his  book  in  the 
ship's  library.  It  contains  a  good  deal  of  nautical 
information." 

' '  Thanks.     I'll  see  if  I  can  get  it. " 

"It  is  rather  dry,"  the  old  man  warned. 

"That  won't  matter.  I'm  curious  to  learn 
what  keeps  my  feet  on  deck  when  I  ought  to  be 
standing  on  my  head." 

"You  are  a  very  amusing  young  man,  Mr. 
Grogan." 

"I  know  it.  I  ought  to  be  in  the  two-a-day 
vaudeville." 

He  found  the  book.  It  was  dry,  dry  as  any- 
thing William  had  ever  picked  up  in  the  form  of 
books.  It  was  a  combination  of  chemistry,  geol- 
ogy, and  arithmetic.  A  casual  glance  was  enough. 
He  sat  down  in  his  chair  and  patiently  waited  for 
the  girl  to  appear.  It  was  a  mean  kind  of  trap; 
and  under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would  not 
have  stooped  to  it.  But  how  in  the  world  could 
he  protect  her  if  he  did  not  know  what  menaced 
her? 

She  arrived  at  the  moment  the  steward  was  serv- 
ing the  broth.  She  smiled  brightly,  dropped  the 
Baedekers  to  the  deck,  plumped  into  her  chair, 

1 08 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

and  drank  her  broth  greedily.  She  did  not  look 
like  a  person  who  had  spent  most  of  the  night  on 
deck. 

The  daughter  of  a  scholar,  herself  well  educated, 
well  bred,  beautiful;  what  chance  had  William 
Grogan,  of  Burns,  Dolan  &  Co.,  estimable  plumb- 
ers though  they  were?  No  chance  whatever.  So 
he  bravely  laid  away  his  love  in  lavender.  But 
there  was  no  barrier  to  friendship.  He  might 
salvage  that  prize  out  of  the  wreck  of  his  dreams. 

"What  are  you  reading  this  morning?"  she 
inquired. 

"Something  five  thousand  miles  over  my  head." 
He  held  out  the  book. 

Instantly  her  expression  changed.  "Where  did 
you  get  this?"  she  cried,  seizing  the  book. 

"In  the  library."  William  found  his  em- 
barrassment of  sizable  dimensions.  Spiritually  he 
writhed. 

She  hugged  the  book  to  her  heart  suddenly, 
and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  tears.  "My  poor, 
unhappy  father!  Mr.  Grogan,  this  is  no  accident. 
How  did  you  find  it?" 

"I'm  a  mean  dog,  I  suppose.  Well,  I  saw  you 
that  day  at  Cook's.  I  didn't  think  much  of  it 
at  the  time.  But  when  you  turned  out  to  be  the 
school-teacher  around  the  corner,  why,  that  was 
different.  I  just  couldn't  help  being  interested. 
You  see,  for  three  years  you  were  a  friend  of  mine, 
though  you  didn't  know  it,  and  I  was  kind  of 
watching  over  you.  So  long  as  you  never  slowed 
up  going  by  that  window,  I  thought  everything 

109 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

was  all  right  with  you.  When  I  found  that  you 
were  my  school-teacher,  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
you  had  run  away  from  something  or  somebody. 
The  way  you  said  your  name  was  Jones  kind  of 
warned  me  that  it  wasn't  Jones.  But,  of  course, 
I  couldn't  ask  any  questions." 

He  paused,  rather  hoping  that  she  would  help 
him  out.  But  she  only  hugged  the  book  closer, 
and  the  fixity  of  her  gaze  troubled  him  so  strongly 
that  he  let  his  wander  toward  the  sea. 

"I  don't  meddle  with  other  people's  business," 
he  struggled  on;  "I'm  not  that  kind  of  a  guy. 
It's  only  because  I  want  to  be  a  real  friend,  some- 
body you  can  rely  on  and  come  to  when  you're  in 
trouble.  It  isn't  as  if  I'd  just  met  you.  Of 
course,  you  don't  know  anything  about  me  but 
what  I've  told  you;  but  I  did  seem  to  know  you. 
Your  little  brown  shoes  going  by  my  window,  one- 
two-three,  like  that,  caught  me.  I  built  up  all 
sorts  of  stories  about  you.  Reading  too  much, 
probably.  Anyhow,  there  you  were,  every  day, 
rain  or  shine,  except  Saturdays  and  Sundays. 
I'm  a  lonesome  dub  myself.  I've  had  to  fight 
all  along  the  way;  and  I  guess  my  middle  name  is 
Trouble.  When  I  don't  hunt  for  it,  they  bring  it 
to  me  on  a  platter." 

"What  is  it  you  think  I  have  done?"  she  asked, 
quietly. 

"Honest,  I  don't  know  what  I  thought.  Any- 
how, I  wasn't  thinking  of  asking  any  questions. 
This  morning  I  picked  up  one  of  those  Baedekers, 
and  I  accidentally  saw  the  name  on  the  fly-leaf. 

no 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

I  wasn't  sure;  so  I  asked  one  of  my  ancients  if  he 
had  ever  heard  of  a  Professor  Warren.  He  had. 
Now,  Miss  Warren,  you  don't  have  to  tell  William 
Grogan  anything.  It  isn't  because  I  was  just 
curious.  That  wasn't  it  at  all.  But  I  thought  if 
I  was  really  your  friend  I  might  help  you — that  is, 
if  you  were  in  any  kind  of  trouble  where  a  friend 
could  help."  He  spoke  depreciatingly,  but  there 
was  a  fine  light  in  his  eyes.  ' '  I  take  it  that  you're 
all  alone,  like  I  am.  If  you'd  had  a  brother  or  a 
family,  why,  I'd  Ve  shied  off." 

The  girl's  heart  grew  suddenly  and  gratefully 
warm.  Until  this  moment  she  had  not  believed 
that  such  a  man  existed  outside  of  one's  fancy. 
It  was  so  easy  and  simple  for  man  to  pass  on,  eying 
askance  all  burdens  save  his  own  and  seldom  offer- 
ing to  give  others  a  lift  unless  impelled  by  self- 
interest.  His  face  no  longer  provoked  her  sense 
of  the  comic;  some  light,  very  fine  and  lofty, 
seemed  to  shine  through  it.  The  tears  which  had 
hung  desperately  to  her  eyelids,  lost  hold,  tumbled 
and  plashed  upon  the  book  and  the  hands  which 
clasped  it. 

"I  want  you  for  my  friend,  Mr.  Grogan.  I 
can't  say  very  much.  I'm  a  little  choked  up  just 
now.  My  father!  And  this  book  was  his  life,  a 
part  of  the  thing  he  strove  so  valiantly  to  attain. 
Half  the  time  he  never  realized  that  I  was  living 
in  the  same  house  with  him.  So  there  are  still 
some  men  of  intellect  who  remember  what  he 
did ?  Thank  you  for  letting  me  know  that." 

"Then  you're  going  to  let  me  be  a  real  friend, 
in 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

a  sort  of  Brother  Bill  kind?"  William's  voice 
shook. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Brother  Bill!"  She  smiled  through 
her  tears 

"The  kind  you  can  come  to  if  ever  you  happen 
to  be  in  trouble?"  He  was  rather  insistent  about 
this  article  in  the  compact. 

"Yes."  She  gave  him  her  hand  warmly  and 
firmly,  and  after  that  the  world  did  not  seem  so 
dark  to  William. 

' '  I  wonder, ' '  he  said,  when  the  tingle  of  the  hand- 
clasp died  away — "I  wonder  if  I'm  superstitious? 
I  don't  know.  But  somehow  I  feel  I  didn't  pick 
out  this  old  gondola  for  nothing.  Somebody  has 
appointed  me  your  guardian.  But  you've  got  to 
promise  that  when  you  need  me  you'll  call  me." 

"I  promise.  If  ever  I  need  a  man,  strong  and 
honest,  between  me  and  this  something  you  hint 
of,  I'll  call  to  you." 

She  recollected  this  promise  one  dreadful  night 
in  the  purlieus  of  Malay  Street  in  far-away  Singa- 
pore. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  was  rather  remarkable  that  William  should 
recognize  the  futility  of  his  love  the  moment  it 
came  into  the  range  of  his  understanding.  The 
true  lover  immediately  sees  all  his  defects,  more  or 
less  colossal;  his  .conceit  and  complacency  col- 
lapse, and  he  never  recovers  them  in  the  same 
proportions.  William  took  no  inventory;  it  was 
not  at  all  necessary.  It  was  not  that  he  was  mere- 
ly homely;  there  was  his  lack  of  education,  his 
lack  of  breeding.  To  a  girl  like  Ruth  Warren, 
physical  attractions  were  only  small  change;  any 
man  to  be  successful  with  her  had  to  have  breeding 
and  education;  if  he  possessed  physical  beauty,  he 
was  only  so  much  luckier.  William  was  strong  in 
moral  fiber;  abnegation  is  not  an  inherent  quality 
in  weak  men.  So  he  did  not  go  mooning  about, 
cursing  the  day  he  was  born  and  questioning  the 
stars  at  night. 

The  girl  was  serenely  unconscious  of  this  state 
of  affairs.  She  saw  the  same  class  distinctions 
that  he  saw.  She  did  not  even  think  of  him 
in  the  light  of  a  candidate.  From  the  other 
approach,  however,  that  of  friendship,  she  met 
him  more  than  half-way.  She  could  not  re- 
member having  a  sincerer  liking  for  a  man. 

"3 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Above  all  things  she  needed  the  comradeship 
of  a  cheerful  person;  and  William  Grogan  was 
that.  That  the  Spartan  fox  was  gnawing  at  his 
vitals  as  he  laughed  and  jested  would  have  ap- 
pealed to  her  as  impossible. 

Beyond  the  fact  that  she  was  Professor  Warren's 
daughter  he  made  not  the  least  effort  to  pene- 
trate. This  was  because  he  possessed,  without 
knowing  it  for  what  it  was,  an  innate  chivalry. 
Her  secrets  were  her  own;  and  if  the  day  should 
come  when  she  felt  the  need  of  taking  him  into  her 
full  confidence,  why,  he  would  be  ready  to  accept 
it,  to  give  what  advice  he  could. 

She  did  not  make  friends  readily,  and  he  rather 
regretted  this.  She  had  the  disconcerting  habit 
of  letting  the  other  person  carry  on  the  conversa- 
tion until  it  died  a  natural  death.  The  women 
were  beginning  to  leave  her  alone,  and  that  was  a 
bad  sign.  It  was  William's  opinion  that  she 
ought  to  make  acquaintances  port  and  starboard. 
Six  months  amounted  to  a  great  many  days;  and 
those  whom  she  had  politely  snubbed  would  not 
forget  it,  happen  she  had  need  of  them  some  day. 
He  was  frank  enough  to  put  this  opinion  into 
words.  And  he  was  both  surprised  and  gratified 
when  she  said  humbly  that  from  now  on  she 
would  snub  no  one. 

Of  Camden  they  now  saw  but  little;  and  neither 
missed  him.  He  was  carrying  on  a  mild  flirtation 
with  a  young  woman  who  had  social  ambitions; 
and  to  her  Camden  seemed  to  be  the  only  eligible 
man  on  board. 

114 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

It  was  the  second  Sunday  of  the  voyage,  half 
after  ten  in  the  morning.  William  came  around 
to  his  chair  and  dropped  into  it  with  a  sigh  of 
contentment. 

"Church  over?"  Ruth  asked,  closing  her  book. 

"No.  But  I  was  getting  fidgety,  and  sloped. 
They  told  me  there's  several  hundred  millions  of 
heathen  to  convert.  Confronted  by  such  a  hope- 
less job,  I  gave  up  my  pew*." 

She  laughed.  "You  shouldn't  make  fun  of  the 
missioners,"  she  reproved. 

"I  know  it.  But  several  hundred  millions! 
And  he  shook  his  ringer  at  me,  too.  Well,  maybe 
I  am  a  heathen.  I  don't  go  to  church;  I  can't  sit 
still  long  enough.  But  if  you  want  my  idea  of 
Christianity,  give  me  the  Salvation  Army.  I'm 
not  joking.  You  don't  hear  much  about  them. 
They  toot  cornets  and  bang  bass-drums  on  the 
corner,  and  it  makes  you  grin ;  but  for  doing  down- 
right good  they've  got  all  the  missioners  buffaloed. 
Take  it  from  me;  I  know.  They  don't  go  around 
trying  to  convert  Rockerbilt  into  giving  a  memorial 
window  to  the  Cathedral  of  Everlasting  Lugs — 
nope.  They  go  to  the  back  door  and  ask  for  old 
clothes,  cast-off  shoes,  and  magazines.  Then  they 
go  out  after  the  poor  souses,  the  homeless  devils, 
the  good-for-naughts,  the  girls  of  the  street,  the 
drunkard's  wife,  and  the  like.  Do  they  preach 
sermons  about  the  poor  heathen  ?  Nix.  They  pass 
around  hot  soup,  old  coats  and  shoes,  and  throw  in 
a  cot  for  the  night  if  you  don't  happen  to  have  one. 
That  kind  of  makes  the  poor  devils  believe  there  is 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

a  God.  But  if  you  make  a  Christian  out  of  a 
happy  Hottentot,  you  usually  have  to  stand  over 
him  with  a  club.  Say,"  with  sudden  eagerness, 
"the  bulletin  says  we  reach  Naples  Tuesday 
morning  around  ten  o'clock." 

"Glorious!  Sorrento,  the  Blue  Grotto,  Pom- 
peii! Isn't  it  wonderful?" 

"It  sure  is,  sister." 

"But  I  don't  think  you're  very  pious." 

"Maybe  not.  Stained  glass,  pipe-organs,  and 
white  neckties  never  gave  me  a  shiver  yet.  I 
poke  fun  at  'em  sometimes,  if  that'-s  what  you 
mean.  Aw,  the  whole  thing  is  twisted  up,  some- 
how. They've  all  got  the  right  idea,  but  every- 
body wants  to  do  the  leading;  nobody  wants  to  be 
led.  I'm  for  the  Salvationists." 

"Do  you  like  music?"  she  asked,  presently. 

"Like  it?  Why,  you  can  get  me  away  from  my 
meat  with  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  hair-comb. 
When  I  was  a  kid  I  got  lost  twice  in  New  York, 
following  the  German  bands.' 

"What  kind  of  music  do  you  like?" 

"All  kinds,  if  it's  good,  barring  the  cornet- 
player  and  the  Swiss  bell-ringers.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  music,  but  I  know  that  it  gets  me 
deep.  There  used  to  be  an  old  chap  at  my 
boarding-house  who  could  play  the  violin,  believe 
me.  He'd  put  me  to  sleep,  kind  of,  with  old- 
home  stuff,  and  then  yank  up  the  hair  on  the  back 
of  my  neck  with  some  of  that  dago-Dutch  music. 
Couldn't  tell  you  why  I  liked  it,  but  it  always  got 
me." 

116 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"I  believe  church  is  over."  She  got  up. 
"Would  you  like  to  hear  me  play  the  piano?" 

' '  You  can  play  ?     Well,  say ! ' ' 

"Come  along,  then.  There  is  a  piano  in  the 
alcove  over  the  dining-saloon ;  and  if  there's  no 
one  around  I'll  play  for  you.  The  truth  is,  I've 
been  hungering  to  touch  that  piano." 

They  succeeded  in  getting  into  the  alcove  with- 
out attracting  attention ;  and  shortly  after  William 
sat  back  in  his  chair,  feeling  that  his  soul  had  been 
plucked  out  of  him  and  cast  among  the  clouds. 
She  played  lightly  and  dreamily  at  first;  half  the 
time  the  music  was  but  a  low  ripple  of  murmurous 
sounds.  Bach,  Grieg,  Beethoven,  Rubinstein, 
Chopin ;  it  is  doubtful  if  at  that  time  William  had 
ever  heard  of  them;  but,  strangers  though  they 
were,  they  knew  how  to  play  with  his  tempera- 
mental soul.  He  was  really  fond  of  good  music; 
he  had  heard  just  enough  of  it  in  the  past  to 
whet  his  taste  for  it;  and  what  he  heard  this 
morning  set  his  desires  in  full  cry.  What  he  could 
not  understand  was  that  she  could  play  all  these 
wonderful  compositions  without  notes. 

They  both  awoke  suddenly  and  embarrassedly 
to  the  realization  that  they  had  an  unsuspected 
audience.  The  two  balcony-corridors  were  filled 
with  delighted  auditors.  A  muffled  round  of 
applause  greeted  the  performer  as  she  rounded  out 
the  brilliant  finale  of  Chopin's  Fourth  Ballade. 
She  had  forgotten  herself;  her  skill  and  ardor  had 
smothered  her  caution. 

"We're  in  for  it  now!"  whispered  William,  with 
117 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

a  grin.  "There's  the  entertainment  committee 
edging  through  the  bunch." 

Several  young  women  had  constituted  them- 
selves a  committee  on  entertainments.  They  had 
not  been  elected  by  popular  vote ;  they  had  simply 
agreed  to  be  the  committee.  At  once  they  ar- 
ranged a  series  of  card-parties,  candy  auctions, 
charades,  dances,  and  musicales.  They  also 
passed  the  hat  for  the  sailors'  fund,  the  stokers' 
fund,  some  orphans  in  the  steerage,  the  band,  the 
heathen,  and  back  to  the  sailors'  fund  again.  A 
good  deal  of  tobacco  was  incinerated  in  the  smoke- 
room  on  nights  given  over  to  these  festivities. 
In  the  eye  of  the  committee  this  young  musician 
was  a  veritable  find. 

"Oh,  Miss  Jones,  won't  you  play  at  our  concert 
Monday  night?  Please!" 

"I'll  be  glad  to,"  said  Ruth,  without  the  slightest 
hesitance.  The  initial  embarrassment  was  gone; 
nor  did  she  accept  the  invitation  as  one  conferring 
a  favor.  She  rose  from  the  stool  and  left  the 
alcove,  smiling. 

William  pressed  after  her,  self-conscious  but 
exhilarated.  He  was  very  proud  of  her,  and  what 
vanity  he  had  was  expanding.  She  had  played 
just  to  please  him.  Suddenly  the  slump  came. 
What  had  he  to  offer  a  woman  like  this  ?  Nothing, 
absolutely  nothing — that  is,  if  you  discounted  his 
willingness  to  give  his  heart's  blood. 

Camden,  from  the  rear  of  the  crowd,  nodded  his 
head  approvingly. 

"That  young  woman  has  manner,"  he  declared. 
1x8 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

"She  isn't  flustered  and  doesn't  pretend  to  be, 
which  is  better  still.  And,  by  George,  she  can 
play!" 

"You  seem  very  much  interested  all  of  a  sud- 
den," said  the  flirt  at  his  elbow.  "She  is  probably 
some  musician  returning  to  her  studies." 

"Shouldn't  wonder,"  replied  Camden;  and 
then,  with  a  smile  palpably  seasoned  with  malice: 
"She  has  grace  and  beauty  too." 

His  neighbor  frowned.  She  had  no  liking  for  the 
trend  of  conversation.  On  his  part  he  was  quite 
indifferent ;  she  had  served  his  turn. 

"But  what  in  the  world  does  she  see  in  that 
Irishman?" 

"He  probably  amuses  her,  as  he  does  us.  She 
is  an  unusual  person.  Just  as  everything  threat- 
ened to  sink  into  the  doldrums,  she  startles  us  all 
by  proving  herself  to  be  a  fine  musician.  Next 
thing  we'll  hear  she's  the  daughter  of  some  multi- 
millionaire. If  I  were  going  all  the  way  around 
I'd  cultivate  her.  A  woman,  to  play  like  that, 
must  in  her  gentler  moods  be  charming." 

Later  Camden  went  in  search  of  William  and 
found  him  among  the  giant  cables  in  the  bow. 

"Hello!"  he  hailed.  "What  are  you  doing  up 
here  among  the  paint-pots  and  old  iron?" 

"Trying  to  hurry  the  boat  along/'  said  William, 
without  appreciable  cordiality. 

He  did  not  care  to  talk  to  any  one.  He  had 
chosen  this  isolated  spot  because  he  was  superla- 
tively unhappy.  His  desire  had  been  to  crawl 
away  somewhere  (like  a  dumb  animal  that's  been 
9  119 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

hurt)  where  he  could  sigh  without  half  the  ship 
turning  around  to  see  what  the  trouble  was.  So 
Camden  was  not  welcome. 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  leaving  us  Tuesday." 

"That  depends  upon  what  news  awaits  me  in 
Naples,"  was  Camden 's  reply.  "I  may  wind  up 
in  Hong-Kong.  My  work  is  full  of  big  jumps.  I 
never  know  from  one  day  to  another  where  I'm 
due  to  land  next."  Camden  laughed.  This  state- 
ment was  so  frankly  true  that  its  appeal  to  his 
risibles  was  too  strong  to  overcome.  "As  for  in- 
clination, I'd  like  to  start  back  to  New  York  at 
once." 

"Uh-huh.  What's  this  noise  about  the  old 
burg,  anyhow?  We're  always  wanting  to  get 
back  to  it.  I  was  kind  of  homesick  not  more  than 
five  minutes  gone." 

"It's  because  any  town  we  grow  up  in  becomes  a 
part  of  us;  and  so  when  we  go  away  from  it  we're 
being  amputated  after  a  fashion.  Why  didn't 
you  tell  me  Miss  Jones  played  the  piano  like  that  ?" 

"Did  we  ever  talk  music?"  countered  William, 
evasively. 

"Not  that  I  recollect.  But  she  has  genius; 
and  such  a  gift  doesn't  belong  to  her  alone.  A 
school-teacher?  She  ought  to  be  performing  on 
the  concert  stage,  making  ten  or  fifteen  thousand 
the  year." 

"As  much  as  all  that?"  William  was  aston- 
ished. "That's  tough  luck.  She  can't  face  a  real 
audience.  Something  the  matter  with  her  nerves. 
She  told  me  she  had  tried  and  tried,  and  failed. 

120 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

She  didn't  know  a  crowd  had  collected  until  she 
was  through." 

"But  she  promised  to  play  at  the  concert  to- 
morrow night.  I  heard  her." 

"Ye-ah;  but  no  bread  and  butter  depends  on 
to-morrow  night. ' ' 

"Ah,  I  understand.     That's  very  unfortunate." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  guess  she  prefers  to  be- 
long to  herself." 

"Well,  it  was  a  treat  to  hear  her."  Camden 
lighted  a  cigarette  and  stared  ahead  reflectively. 

"Hong-Kong?"  thought  William.  What  kind 
of  a  job  did  this  man  work  at  that  took  him  from 
one  end  of  the  world  to  the  other  at  a  moment's 
notice  ?  William  still  doddered ;  did  he  like  or  dis- 
like Camden  ?  Twelve  days  had  passed  since  the 
first  friction,  and  yet  he  could  not  decide.  Never 
before  had  he  met  a  man  he  could  neither  like  nor 
dislike,  and  it  bothered  him.  He  was  honest 
enough  to  admit  that  he  wanted  to  dislike  Camden, 
but  could  not  find  any  justifiable  reasons. 

Two  or  three  times  he  had  essayed  to  broach  the 
subject  to  his  school-teacher,  to  ascertain  her 
opinion  of  the  man,  but  something  had  always 
intervened.  Camden  had  not  made  the  slightest 
attempt  to  flirt  with  her,  and  he  had  proved 
elsewhere  that  he  was  not  above  such  pastime. 
Up  to  the  present  time  his  manner  had  been 
irreproachable.  William  put  aside  these  thoughts 
abruptly.  He  wasn't  getting  anywhere.  And 
in  a  day  or  so  his  path  and  Camden's  would 
deviate  indefinitely. 

121 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

'Have  you  ever  seen  the  Bay  of  Naples  late  in  the 
summer,  before  the  snow-breathing  winds  come 
down  from  the  Apennines  to  clarify  the  air?  I 
know;  doubtless  you  have  sailed  over  it  in  autumn 
and  winter  and  spring,  but  there  is  something  for 
you  still  to  see.  The  whole  lovely  panorama  is 
like  a  mirage.  If  there  is  any  poetry  in  your 
nature,  this  unforgetable  picture  is  going  to  bring 
it  out  to  you  forthwith,  for  better  or  for  worse. 

Remember  the  pink  stucco  of  the  terraced  city, 
the  superlative  blue  of  the  water,  the  dazzling  sun- 
shine, the  grim,  gray  ash-heap  men  call  Vesuvius, 
the  pink  villages  dotting  the  circular  shore  to  the 
tip  of  the  Sorrentine  peninsula,  the  amethyst 
isles? — nothing  seems  real  until  you  become 'part 
of  it.  The  city  is  an  enchanting  illusion  until 
your  foot  touches  it,  the  sea  until  you  dip  your 
fingers  into  it. 

William  could  not  write  poetry,  not  even  the 
popular-song  sort,  but  he  often  thought  in  Homeric 
verse.  All  in  the  forty-odd  minutes  it  takes  to 
enter  the  bay  and  glide  into  the  haven  inside  the 
breakwater  he  was  in  rotation  a  Roman  centu- 
rion, a  gladiator  in  Pompeii,  a  Saracen  gathering 
loot,  a  galley-salve  (breaking  his  chains  and  killing 
the  brutal  overseer),  a  Christian  martyr  vanquish- 
ing the  lions,  and  a  soldier  of  Garibaldi — all 
fighters,  every  blessed  one  of  them. 

Mr.  Cook,  mindful  of  his  commissions,  spread 
the  little  army  among  the  lesser  first-class  hotels 
such  as  were  open  at  this  time  of  the  year.  As 
usual  in  such  arrangements  there  was  a  good  deal 

122 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

of  confusion  and  friends  were  separated.  The 
two  archeologists,  Ruth  and  the  two  spinsters 
who  shared  her  cabin  on  board  the  Ajax,  and  Cam- 
den  were  assigned  to  the  Bristol,  while  William, 
much  to  his  indignation,  found  himself  domiciled 
at  the  Parker,  farther  down  the  Corso  Vittorio. 

For  the  next  four  days  William  had  not  time  to 
devote  to  idle  retrospection;  Mr.  Cook's  agents 
took  care  of  that.  They  saw  Vesuvius,  Pompeii, 
Sorrento,  Amalfi,  Capri  and  the  Blue  Grotto, 
Naples  (north,  east,  south,  and  west),  and  visited 
the  baths  at  Baia.  William  was  tireless,  inde- 
fatigable. Many  pilgrims  fell  by  the  wayside, 
gasping,  and  some  refused  to  go  farther;  but  not 
so  William,  who  was  out  to  see  everything,  whether 
he  was  going  to  enjoy  it  or  not. 

The  army  was  divided  into  brigades.  The 
guide  who  had  charge  of  William's  brigade  cursed 
the  day  he  was  born.  He  begged,  cajoled,  pleaded ; 
in  vain;  William  was  relentless.  Not  the  smallest 
tomb  escaped  him;  he  absorbed  information  at 
every  pore;  he  fairly  drank  that  guide  until  he 
rattled  like  an  empty  canteen. 

Then  came  Sunday,  and  William  rested  half  the 
day.  He  summed  up  his  four  days'  tripping  as 
follows :  ten  thousand  ruins,  ten  thousand  marble 
statues,  ten  thousand  pieces  of  bronze,  ten  thou- 
sand cabmen,  and  twice  that  number  of  beggars. 

In  the  afternoon  he  and  Ruth  set  out  to  visit 
William's  old  friend  Tommaso  Malfi.  They  found 
him  on  a  little  farm  at  the  foot  of  Vesuvius.  Tom- 
maso was  delighted.  He  called  to  his  wife 

123 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

frantically.  He  yelled  for  little  Tony.  The  three 
of  them  executed  a  tarantella  about  the  embar- 
rassed William.  Ruth  saw  that  there  was  some- 
thing more  than  simple  cordiality  in  this  effusive 
welcome. 

"Ah,  mees,  you  don'  know  thees  Irisher.  But 
for  heem  I  have  no  leetle  Tony.  Si. ' ' 

"Aw,  forget  it,  Tommy,"  said  William,  blushing 
to  his  ears.  There  had  been  no  ulterior  purpose 
in  his  bringing  Ruth  to  this  little  farm-house  sur- 
rounded by  fields  of  artichokes. 

"Si,  si!  I  know  you,  Irisher.  See,  mees.  He 
beat  the  Black  Han'  an'  take  thees  Tony  boy 
away  from  them  an'  save  me  all  the  money  I  have 
in  dees  worl'.  An'  now  he  say,  'Forget  eet!' 
But  I  don't  forget.  Oh,  the  poleece  could  do 
nothing.  But  thees  big  red-head  he  go  right  into 
them  Black  Han's  an'  beat  them  up  weeth  hees 
fists.  Soch  a  fight!  Three  to  one.  Bam,  bam, 
bam!  Good-night,  good-by;  an' eet  is  done!  Like 
that!  An'  he  say,  'Forget  eet!'  Va  via!  You 
mek  me  laugh.  .  .  .  Maria!"  he  shrieked!  "the 
chairs,  the  wine,  the  cheese,  the  ripe  olives,  an' 
the  pickled  artichokes!  Presto!" 

"And  so  I  find  you  a  hero,"  said  Ruth,  on  the 
way  back  through  the  pale  sapphire  twilight. 

"Why,  I  didn't  do  anything  but  punch  a  couple 
of  frightened  wops." 

"But  Tommaso's  wife  said  that  they  were 
armed  and  you  were  not." 

"And  if  I'd  've  known  that  I  wouldn't  have 
butted  in,  believe  me!  But,  say,  that  Tony  boy 

124 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

was  a  peach  those  days — red  cheeks,  black  eyes, 
and  all  that.  A  great  kid." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me?"  she  asked. 

He  thought  for  a  while.     "Well,  sometimes." 

"A  brother  should  never  be  afraid  of  his  sister." 

"I  know  it.  But  there's  something  in  your 
eyes,  once  in  a  while,  that  makes  me  feel  like  beetles 
with  pins  in  'em." 

"You  are  a  brave  man.  Tell  me  the  whole 
story.  I  like  stories  where  men  do  unselfish 
things." 

"I  guess  Tommy  told  all  there  was  to  tell.  I 
walloped  the  three  leaders,  and  after  that  there  was 
no  more  Black  Hand  around  our  neighborhood. 
They're  up  in  Sing  Sing.  Scum!  Think  of  it; 
squeezing  the  hearts  of  mothers!  Aw,  it  would 
make  any  white  man  fighting  mad.  And  say, 
maybe  that  scrap  wasn't  fun!  Did  you  ever  get 
so  mad  that  it  made  you  happy?  Well,  that  was 
me." 

A  curious  wish  rushed  into  the  girl's  heart.  To 
see  him  in  action,  fighting  with  his  bare  fists 
against  odds!  It  was  an  idle,  purposeless  wish, 
and  she  was  almost  instantly  ashamed  of  it. 
Indeed,  she  searched  in  vain  for  the  cause.  She 
detested  brutality.  She  was  always  rather  severe 
with  the  pugnacious  pupils  at  school.  It  was 
perfectly  human  that  young  boys  should  fight 
among  themselves;  nevertheless,  she  did  what  she 
could  to  prevent  these  miniature  wars.  And  here 
she  was  wishing  to  see  this  Hercules  of  the  water- 
pipes  in  a  fight  against  odds.  The  puzzle  of  it  was 

125 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

still  shifting  about  in  her  mind  as  the  carriage 
stopped  in  front  of  the  Bristol. 

There  was  to  be  a  band  concert  down  in  the 
Villa  Nazionale  that  night.  William  ate  his  din- 
ner impatiently  and  hurried  back  to  the  Bristol, 
at  that  moment  the  center  of  the  universe.  He 
had  to  wait.  So  he  went  into  the  little  writing- 
room  and  tried  to  read  the  Paris  edition  of  the 
New  York  Herald.  As  he  flung  it  aside  he  chanced 
to  look  down  into  the  waste-basket  at  the  side  of 
the  desk.  He  saw  scattered  bits  of  a  photograph. 
Rather  odd,  he  thought.  Forgetting  that  the 
contents  of  a  waste-basket  even  in  a  public  writing- 
room  is  inviolable,  he  reached  down  and  picked  up 
a  piece  of  the  photograph.  Then  he  recalled  that 
the  world  had  gone  crazy  over  picture-puzzles  two 
or  three  years  before.  Here  was  an  opportunity 
to  amuse  himself  until  Ruth  appeared. 

It  required  less  than  five  minutes  to  put  the 
pieces  together.  He  was  dumfounded  at  the  re- 
sult. For  the  face  of  the  woman  he  loved  smiled 
up  at  him  wistfully.  Painstakingly  he  turned  the 
bits  over,  in  case  there  should  be  writing  on  the 
back.  There  was.  In  a  masculine  scrawl  was 
written:  "This  is  the  girl." 


CHAPTER  X 

WILLIAM  stared  down  at  the  writing  while  a 
dozen  conflicting  emotions  possessed  him. 
Ruth  Warren's  photograph,  torn  into  fragments 
and  thrown  carelessly  into  a  waste-basket,  here  in 
Naples,  thousands  of  miles  from  home.  "This 
is  the  girl."  A  sinister  phrase. 

All  the  little  puzzling  angles  in  her  attitude  came 
back  with  a  rush,  each  clearly  defined ;  her  evident 
alarm  over  his  discovery  that  she  was  a  school- 
teacher, the  somberness  of  her  gaze  toward  the  sea, 
her  aloofness,  her  prayer,  her  lack  of  interest  in  the 
mail  department  at  Cook's.  His  heart  was  swept 
by  savage  anger,  only  to  give  way  to  great  tender- 
ness. She  was  all  alone.  She  had  run  away,  and 
it  was  now  patent  that  she  was  being  pursued. 
By  whom  and  for  what?  Was  it  the  contents  of 
the  chamois  bag?  He  swore  under  his  breath. 
He  did  not  care  who  she  was  or  what  she  had  done; 
she  was  the  woman  he  loved. 

William  was  Irish;  but  on  the  other  hand  he 
possessed  Teutonic  doggedness  in  pursuing  an 
object,  in  adhering  to  a  plan  of  action.  Come  ill, 
then,  come  good,  always,  had  she  need  of  him, 
would  she  find  him. 

127 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Further  cogitation  was  denied  him.  The  girl 
herself  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"Ready!" 

"All  right,"  he  replied,  catching  his  breath. 
There  was  something  approaching  happiness  in  her 
face  to-night.  He  scooped  up  the  bits  of  card- 
board and  nonchalantly  dropped  them  into  his 
side  pocket.  If  she  noticed  the  act  she  gave  no 
sign. 

After  the  concert  was  over  they  stopped  at  a  trat- 
toria for  something  cooling  to  drink.  Over  huge 
lemonades,  which  no  amount  of  Belgian  sugar 
seemed  able  to  sweeten,  they  discussed  the  music. 

"Some  band,"  he  agreed. 

' '  Nearly  all  military  bands  are  good.  And  now, 
Brother  William,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Matter?" 

"Yes.  You've  been  absent-minded  all  the 
evening.  You  are  worrying  about  something." 

"Maybe  I  did  a  fool  thing  yesterday,"  he  said, 
evasively.  "I  got  tired  of  running  into  Cook's 
every  morning  for  cigar  money,  so  I  got  fifteen 
hundred  lire.  And  now  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  it.  Camden  told  me  that  the  town  is  alive 
with  sneak-thieves,  and  that  it  isn't  safe  to  wander 
about  at  night  by  your  lonesome." 

"That  was  foolish.  Do  you  want  me  to  carry 
the  money  for  you?  .  .  .  Heavens!  don't  take  it 
out  here,"  she  cried.  "Wait  until  we  get  into  the 
carriage." 

"Maybe  that  wasn't  all  that  was  worrying  me." 
William  was  not  an  adept  at  dissimulation.  He 

128 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

dipped  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  laid  the  frag- 
ments of  the  photograph  on  the  marble-topped 
table.  "I  found  these  pieces  in  the  waste-basket 
at  the  Bristol."  He  began  arranging  the  pieces 
as  he  talked.  "Didn't  know  what  it  was  at  first. 
I  was  waiting  for  you,  and  I  put  'em  together  like 
one  of  those  old  picture-puzzles.  Remember  'em? 
Well,  I  got  some  little  old  jolt,  believe  me.  Can 
you  step  around  to  this  side?" 

Curiously  she  rose  and  came  to  his  side,  looking 
down  over  his  shoulder. 

"Where  did  you  get  that?"  she  asked,  in  a  low, 
tense  voice. 

"I  told  you;  in  the  waste-basket.  I  was  dead 
sure  you  hadn't  thrown  it  there.  And  you  didn't 
tear  it  up?" 

' '  No. ' '     Her  hand  slid  from  his  shoulder. 

' '  Thought  not .  There '  s  something  on  the  back. ' ' 
Carefully  he  reversed  the  pieces.  ' '  See  ?  Will  you 
tell  Brother  Bill  if  there's  anything  serious?" 

She  leaned  down  and  scrutinized  the  writing. 
What  color  there  was  in  her  cheeks  slowly  faded 
and  her  eyes  became  dull.  "I  don't  understand," 
she  said. 

"Well,  the  way  I  take  it,  some  one  is  looking 
for  you.  Remember,  I  said  I'd  never  ask  you  any 
questions,  but  that  if  you  ever  needed  me  you'd 
call  me." 

"I  haven't  forgotten,"  listlessly. 

' '  Do  you  want  this  ?" 

"No.  Throw  it  away."  Her  gesture  was  like 
a  shudder 

129 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"I'll  keep  it." 

"I'd  rather  you  threw  it  away,  in  the  street." 

"And  I'd  rather  keep  it.  I'll  tell  you  what. 
I'll  trade  it  for  a  fresh  one,"  with  a  boldness  he  had 
not  thought  himself  capable  of. 

"I  haven't  any.  That  was  one  of  the  few  I 
ever  possessed.  And  it  would  please  me  if  you 
threw  it  away.  Some  day  I'll  tell  you  why." 

"All  right,  sister.  I  thought  maybe  you  wouldn't 
mind  if  I  kept  it." 

' '  I  would  mind  very  much.  Perhaps  in  Florence 
or  Venice  I'll  have  another  taken;  and  to  one  of 
those  you'll  be  welcome.  But  not  that.  Would 
you  mind  if  we  returned  at  once?  I  am  very 
tired." 

William  was  careful  to  pick  out  a  carriage  with  a 
taximeter.  Neither  of  them  spoke  until  they 
reached  the  Corso.  He  gave  her  a  bundle  of 
bank-notes. 

"Oh  yes;  I  had  forgotten.  You  must  be  very 
careful  of  your  money.  Never  carry  a  large  sum 
about.  Never  keep  your  letter  of  credit  with  the 
little  pink  book  of  identification." 

"I'm  getting  wise.  I  keep  'em  separated  these 
days.  I  wish  we  were  at  the  same  hotel.  I'd 
like  to  know  about  that  photograph.  I  mean," 
he  added,  hastily,  "I'd  like  to  see  the  guy  who  tore 
it  up.  You  see,  I  kick  on  anybody  tearing  up 
something  that  was  yours.  You  understand, 
don't  you?" 

' '  I  believe  I  do. ' '  Some  impulse  impelled  her  to 
add:  "Don't  put  me  on  a  pedestal.  I'm  just  an 

130 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

ordinary  human  being.  To-night,  for  the  first 
time  in  weeks,  I  was  almost  happy.  The  fine 
music,  the  beauty  of  the  night.  .  .  .  Well,  that 
photograph  has  spoiled  it  all.  Throw  it  away, 
please." 

Piece  by  piece  it  fluttered  into  the  night.  At 
first  it  hurt  him;  then  he  saw  it  from  a  different 
and  less  romantic  angle.  It  had  been  touched  by 
other  hands,  men's  hands.  He  was  rather  re- 
lieved to  see  the  last  piece  skim  the  parapet. 

He  bade  her  good  night  at  the  door  of  the  hotel 
and  dismissed  the  carriage.  He  had  so  much  to 
think  about  that  he  preferred  walking  down  to  the 
Parker.  The  Corso  was  deserted.  Once  he  stopped 
and  looked  down  over  the  parapet,  toward  the 
harbor.  The  lights  formed  a  necklace  of  iri- 
descent pearls,  flickering  and  shimmering  like  real 
ones  that  lay  upon  a  woman's  breast.  Pearls. 
Once  more  he  saw  the  chamois  bag.  It  seemed  to 
dance  a  devil's  dance  before  his  eyes,  and  his 
nails  bit  his  palms  as  he  struggled  to  crush  down 
the  ugly  head  of  distrust.  This  mystery  concerned 
him,  therefore  he  hated  it.  It  wasn't  the  right 
kind  of  mystery;  it  repelled,  it  did  not  attract. 

And  yet,  there  had  been  no  alarm,  no  evidence 
of  guilt;  only  a  troubled  weariness.  "Throw  it 
away,"  was  all  she  had  said. 

' '  Lord,  if  I  only  knew  something  about  women !" 
he  murmured — a  cry  which  has  beset  the  male 
mind  since  the  days  of  Adam. 

He  turned  away  from  the  parapet  and  gazed 
toward  Vesuvius.  To-night  there  was  an  inter- 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

mittent  glowing  above  the  crater.  Hadn't  she 
called  it  the  Pipe  of  Vulcan  ?  He  could  not  see  the 
outlines  of  the  great,  sinister  heap;  all  that  was 
visible  was  the  dull  glowing.  It  was  exactly  as  if 
some  giant  stood  over  there  in  the  east,  smoking 
his  pipe  in  the  dark. 

Slowly  he  set  his  step  toward  his  hotel,  his  head 
down,  his  broad  shoulders  bent.  Why,  he  ought 
to  be  the  happiest  man  in  the  world.  Never  any 
more  worry  about  his  pay-envelope ;  free  to  come 
and  go  as  he  pleased;  and  the  great  world  ready 
for  his  explorations;  a  fine  dream  about  to  be 
realized.  And  now  a  woman  must  enter  his  life 
and  spoil  it  all.  Somewhere  he  had  read  that 
for  every  desire  fulfilled  another  appeared  in  its 
place. 

He  was  destined  to  be  jarred  out  of  these  mel- 
ancholy thoughts.  At  the  hotel  the  manager 
approached  him  affably. 

"You  received  the  package  all  right,  Mr. 
Grogan?" 

"Package?    What  package?" 

"Why,  the  package  you  sent  for  about  an  hour 
ago." 

"The  wrong  Grogan.  I  haven't  sent  for  any 
package." 

"But  you  must  have,"  protested  the  manager, 
his  air  of  affability  vanishing  and  one  of  perturba- 
tion taking  its  place.  "Besides,  I  have  your  note 
or  order.  I  was  very  careful  to  compare  your 
signature  with  the  authorized  slip  which  you 
signed  upon  taking  the  room." 

132 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

"Let  me  see  that  note,"  said  William,  wondering 
what  it  was  all  about. 

The  note  was  produced,  and  William  was  forced 
to  admit  that  the  signature  resembled  his  own. 
The  body  of  the  note,  however,  was  rank  forgery. 

"There's  been  a  mistake  somewhere,  unless 
some  one's  playing  a  practical  joke.  I'll  hike  up 
to  the  room  and  see  if  anything's  missing." 

"I  trust,  Mr.  Grogan — " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  That  signature  would 
have  fooled  any  one.  But  I  can't  understand  why 
any  one  would  take  the  trouble  to  play  a  joke  on 
me.  I'll  be  down  in  a  few  minutes  and  let  you 
know  what's  happened." 

He  waved  aside  the  man  at  the  door  of  the 
electric  lift  and  ran  up  the  stairs  three  at  a  bound. 
It  was  quicker  this  way.  He  was  a  little  bewil- 
dered, but  no  particular  worry  beset  him.  More- 
over, he  was  not  very  keen.  The  tattered  photo- 
graph occupied  too  prominent  a  place  in  his 
thoughts. 

Entering  his  room,  he  sent  a  swift,  cursory 
glance  about.  So  far  as  he  could  see  nothing  had 
been  disturbed.  The  articles  on  the  bureau  re- 
mained as  he  had  left  them.  No  genuine  thief 
would  have  overlooked  those  coral  cuff-links  for 
which  he  had  paid  twelve  dollars.  He  investi- 
gated the  bureau  drawers;  there  was  no  sign  of 
alien  hands.  He  rumpled  his  hair  perplexedly. 
A  package.  What  kind  of  a  package  ? 

"Aw.  ..."  But  he  did  not  complete  the 
thought  orally. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

There  was  a  row  of  shoes  at  the  left  of  his  fat 
suit-case,  the  only  piece  of  luggage  he  had  brought 
ashore.  He  had  purchased  a  pair  of  patent- 
leathers,  a  pair  of  stout  tans,  a  pair  of  low  calf,  and 
the  pair  of  walking-shoes  he  had  on.  The  stout 
tans  were  among  the  missing.  He  looked  under 
the  bed,  behind  the  bureau,  and  under  the  chairs. 
The  tans  were  gone.  Then  he  laughed.  A  sneak 
had  pinched  a  pair  of  his  shoes! 

"What  do  you  know  about  that,  Isobel?  A 
pair  of  shoes,  brand-new,  at  four-fifty!  Well, 
say!" 

He  sat  down  and  began  to  chuckle.  He  took 
out  a  cigar,  but  he  did  not  light  it.  His  gaze, 
having  traveled  again  to  the  gap  in  the  alignment 
of  shoes,  traveled  a  little  farther  and  became  fo- 
cused upon  the  lock  of  his  suit-case.  It  dangled 
by  a  single  screw. 

Immediately  a  fountain  of  wool  and  linen  and 
what-nots  filled  the  air.  His  letter  of  credit  had 
been  in  that  suit-case,  and  it  was  now  nowhere  to 
be  found.  Two  thousand  and  six  hundred  dollars, 
all  gone  to  glory! 

He  had  mounted  the  stairs  three  at  a  bound; 
he  went  down  scarcely  touching  any  of  them. 
He  was  fighting  mad,  but  cool. 

"Anything  missing,  Mr.  Grogan?"  The  mana- 
ger was  plainly  worried.  The  hotels  along  the 
Corso  seldom  encountered  difficulties  of  this  char- 
acter. 

"Ye-ah.  •  A  pair  of  shoes  and  my  letter  of 
credit  are  missing." 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Frightful!" 

"Now  don't  get  excited.  What  I  want  to 
know  is,  what  did  this  messenger  look  like?" 

"This  is  a  terrible  misfortune!  He  was  about 
your  age,  perhaps.  I  was  particular  to  note  that 
he  wore  a  blue  serge  suit,  baggy  at  the  knees,  and 
had  on  a  straw  hat.  I  could  not  say  that  he  was 
either  poorly  or  well  dressed." 

"What  kind  of  shoes  did  he  have  on?" 

"I  did  not  notice  them." 

"That's  bad.  Sometimes  a  man  '11  forget  to 
change  them  when  he  goes  masquerading.  He 
didn't  go  into  my  room  alone?" 

' '  Certainly  not.  The  head  waiter  accompanied 
him." 

"Send  for  him." 

The  head  waiter's  explanation  was  simple  He 
had  escorted  the  messenger  up  to  the  room, 
watched  him  take  a  pair  of  shoes  and  wrap  them 
up  in  a  newspaper.  He  had  then  locked  the  door. 

"Did  you  come  with  the  man?" 

"No,  sir.  I  went  with  him  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  giving  him  the  key." 

"Which  he  gave  to  me,"  interpolated  the  mana- 
ger. 

"Somehow  he  got  back  before  he  gave  you  that 
key.  Well,  the  damage  is  done.  But  I  guess  he 
wasted  his  time.  The  letter  is  no  good  without  the 
identification  book  which  I  have  in  my  pocket." 

"That  news  takes  a  great  weight  off  my  shoul- 
ders, Mr.  Grogan.  A  word  to  Cook  in  the  morning 
will  stop  the  letter  from  being  used  anywhere  in 

10  135 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

the  world.  If  your  bankers  cannot  find  the  letter 
after  a  certain  length  of  time,  they  will  reissue  it, 
deducting  your  previous  withdrawals.  Tourists 
make  so  many  strange  requests,  and  are  so  irritable 
if  we  don't  comply,  that  we  are  forced  often  to  act 
against  our  judgment.  If  the  messenger  had  been 
a  native,  he  would  never  have  got  as  far  as  the  head 
of  the  stairs." 

"He  wasn't  an  Italian?" 

"If  he  was,  he  was  a  supremely  clever  one.  He 
talked  and  acted  like  an  Englishman.  A  number 
of  English  stop  here,  so  I  have  reason  to  believe 
that  he  was  English." 

"Well,  so  long  as  I  can  stop  him  from  touching 
my  money,  that's  enough  for  me.  I  don't  blame 
you  any.  But  it's  some  mystery.  How'd  he 
know  it  was  in  my  grip?  How'd  he  know  that  I 
wasn't  carrying  it?  Sure,  it  might  be  chance,  and 
then  it  mightn't." 

William  returned  to  his  room,  not  at  all  grateful 
for  this  peculiar  diversion.  He  undressed  and  sat 
down  on  the  bed,  smoking.  Tobacco  always  had 
a  way  of  loosening  up  the  knots  in  his  head.  He 
groped  backward.  He  recalled  the  robbery  on 
board  the  Ajax  and  the  subsequent  return  of  the 
wallet,  its  contents  intact. 

"I  got  it!"  He  thwacked  his  thigh.  "The 
guy  that  took  my  wallet  took  the  letter  of  credit, 
too.  That's  the  answer.  But  why  pick  on  Wil- 
liam Grogan?  It  don't  listen  right.  Let's  see. 
Who'd  get  any  fun  out  of  tripping  me  up?  ... 
Wops!" 

136 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

He  knew  something  of  the  Italians ;  they  never 
forgot,  they  never  forgave.  A  friend  of  the  men. 
he  had  sent  to  Sing  Sing  had  crossed  on  the  Ajax* 
He  had  always  wondered  when  those  Black- 
Handers  would  start  reprisals.  And  La  Mano 
Nera  in  Italy  was  backed  by  the  Camorra,  which 
sounded  Irish  and  wasn't.  He  was  positive  now 
that  he  had  hold  of  the  main  thread.  He  must 
watch  out  for  an  Italian  who  spoke  excellent  Eng- 
lish, who  no  doubt  had  been  born  in  New  York. 

Having  reached  this  conclusion,  logical  enough 
from  his  point  of  view,  he  laid  the  butt  of  his  cigar 
in  the  ash-tray,  turned  out  the  lights,  rolled  over 
and  went  to  sleep,  untroubled  by  dreams.  He  did 
not  know  that  there  were  men  here  and  there 
across  the  world  who  would  have  traded  their 
millions  for  those  nine  blank  hours  which  he  ac- 
cepted as  a  matter  of  course. 

Next  morning  Cook  sent  out  the  alarm.  If  the 
missing  letter  was  not  found  within  thirty  days  a 
new  letter  would  be  issued  and  forwarded  either  to 
Cairo  or  Colombo.  All  William  stood  to  lose  was 
time.  To  make  sure  that  he  would  not  lack  for 
immediate  funds  he  cabled  Burns  to  send  five 
hundred  to  Cairo. 

"And  so,  sister,  you've  got  to  carry  brother 
Bill's  money.  I  haven't  told  anybody  but  you." 

"But  I  might  lose  it." 

"I'll  take  the  risk."  He  did  not  confide  to  her 
the  suspicions  he  held  in  regard  to  the  Italian 
vendetta.  Worrying  her  would  not  better  his 
situation.  "By  the  way,  where's  Camden?" 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"He  left  for  Venice  late  last  night." 
' '  Uh-huh.     What's  your  idea  of  him ?" 
'  *  Moody,  but  very  interesting. ' '     She  was  rather 
non-committal. 

In  Rome  William  was  attacked  upon  three  occa- 
sions, at  night,  always  when  he  was  alone.  Each 
time  he  had  struck  one  good  blow;  thereupon, 
much  as  he  disliked  doing  it,  he  had  taken  to  his 
heels.  Italians  were  handy  with  their  knives.  In 
Florence  he  had  two  narrow  escapes.  After  these 
visitations  he  did  not  go  prowling  across  the  Ponte 
Vecchio  at  night  in  the  endeavor  to  reconstruct 
some  of  Benvenuto  Cellini's  lesser  adventures.  I 
might  add  that  he  no  longer  slept  dreamlessly.  He 
even  went  so  far  as  to  write  Burns  to  learn  if  any 
of  those  Italians  he  had  sent  up  the  river  were  out. 
The  affair  began  to  get  on  his  nerves,  tough  as  they 
were.  He  was  not  particularly  disturbed  on  his 
own  account ;  but  how  was  he  to  watch  over  Ruth, 
when  a  knife  was  hourly  threatening  his  back? 
Of  course,  he  said  nothing  to  her  about  these  mys- 
terious contacts  in  the  night.  He  set  a  smiling 
face  for  his  school-teacher,  and  she  suspected 
nothing. 

Neither  of  them  took  note  of  a  new  fact.  Their 
fellow-tourists  were  beginning  to  smile  when  they 
saw  these  two  together,  which  was  daily  and 
everywhere.  Romance !  Humanity  smiles  indul- 
gently upon  the  young  male  and  female  when  they 
walk  together,  upon  love  or  the  suggestion  of  it. 
Heaven  knows  why  they  smile;  the  real  thing  is 
serious  enough. 

138 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

One  afternoon  as  they  came  down  from  Fiesole, 
twenty  or  thirty  carriages  in  all,  like  a  funeral  cor- 
tege or  a  wedding — you  could  take  your  choice — • 
William  voiced  a  plaint. 

"In  Rome  I  saw  all  the  churches — St.  Peter's, 
the  Vatican — the  galleries,  the  museums,  the 
wrecks  and  ruins;  same  here  in  Florence.  And 
what  do  I  know?  Nothing.  I  can't  tell  the  name 
of  a  picture,  a  church,  or  a  ruin.  I  guess  I'm 
solid  ivory  and  no  cracks." 

"Don't  let  that  bother  you.  No  human  being 
can  assimilate  all  these  things  at  once.  Years 
from  now  you'll  be  staring  over  your  pipe,  and  all 
these  wonderful  beauties  will  return  to  you,  one  by 
one;  you'll  understand  and  your  heart  will  glow 
with  gladness.  You  don't  want  to  see  these  things 
just  to  go  back  and  tell  about  them.  They  are 
for  us  to  dream  over." 

"Look!"  he  cried,  suddenly. 

"Where?" 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that!  See, 
they're  building  something,  putting  up  something 
that's  not  a  ruin,  that's  brand-new!" 

"Now  you're  trying  to  be  sarcastic." 

"Maybe  I  am.  But  my  head  seems  filled  with 
one  of  these  dago  soups;  a  thousand  years,  and 
you  couldn't  tell  what  was  in  it." 

They  came  into  Venice  at  sunset.  For  once 
William  was  bereft  of  speech.  The  brooding 
silence  of  this  magic  city  in  the  sea  laid  hold 
of  him. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Beautiful,  beautiful!"  murmured  the  girl  at  his 
side.  ' '  And  I  have  lived  to  see  it !" 

Several  times  on  the  way  to  the  hotel  she  grasped 
his  arm  to  call  his  attention  (as  if  that  were  neces- 
sary) to  some  enchanting  marble,  the  towers  rosal 
in  the  flood  of  sunset,  the  base  of  it  dark  and 
gloomy  like  Alpine  ice.  Each  time  she  touched 
him  he  trembled.  Sometimes  he  found  it  very 
hard  to  be  so  close  to  her. 

"Oh,  we  mustn't  stay  indoors  here;  we  must 
be  out  in  the  sunshine  every  minute.  I'm  going 
to  love  it.  I  don't  want  to  go  any  farther.  I  want 
to  stay  here  all  the  rest  of  my  life." 

They  were  keen  to  ride  around  the  canals  that 
night;  and  William  engaged  a  gondolier  immedi- 
ately after  dinner.  After  they  had  listened  to  the 
barge  concerts  (and  the  inevitable  toreador  song) , 
they  let  the  man  at  the  sweep  go  whither  he  listed. 
He  slid  into  the  Giudecca  and  wound  in  and  out 
among  the  destroyers,  the  liners,  sloops,  yachts, 
and  lighters.  They  were  gliding  under  the  stern 
of  a  handsome  sea-going  yacht,  white  as  frost  in 
this  incomparable  moonlight. 

William  slowly  spelled  out  the  name. 

"E-l-s-a;  Elsa,  New  York.  Well,  here's  a  boat 
all  the  way  from  the  old  burg." 

A  strange  thing  happened.  The  girl  gave  a 
little  cry  and  huddled  down  close  to  the  black 
cushions  of  the  gondola. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHAT'S  the  matter?"  asked  William,  bend- 
ing toward  her  in  alarm. 

"I  ...  I  ...  Nothing!"  she  stammered.  "I 
feel  a  little  dizzy.  Would  you  mind  if  I  returned 
to  the  hotel  ?  You  see,  we  were  half  a  day  on  that 
crowded  train,  and  perhaps  I'm  overdone." 

" Sure  we'll  go  back." 

He  looked  at  the  vanishing  stern  of  the  yacht, 
then  down  at  the  girl  again.  They  entered  a  circle 
of  light,  and  he  saw  that  her  hands  were  clasped 
convulsively.  It  was,  he  surmised,  something 
about  the  name  Elsa.  And  who  was  Elsa?  A 
sister?  A  bit  of  the  old  cynicism  crept  into  "bis. 
mind.  It  might  be  that  she  had  a  sister  named 
Elsa,  a  sister  who  had  not  turned  out  right.  As  he- 
conned  this  thought  over  it  assumed  logical  pro- 
portions far  more  agreeable  than  any  he  had  pre- 
viously imagined.  Here  was  something  that  had 
sense  to  it.  What  was  more  reasonable  than  that 
she  should  flee  from  the  horror  and  misery  of  such 
a  tragedy  and  wrap  herself  up  in  mystery? 

It  was  plainly  apparent  that  the  name  of  the 
yacht  had  disturbed  Ruth,  and  it  was  equally  clear 
that  she  had  told  a  lie  about  it. 

"You  mustn't  come  in  on  my  account,"  she 
141 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

protested,  as  the  gondola  nosed  up  to  the  hotel's 
marble  steps,  awash  with  the  rising  tide. 

' '  You're  better ?"     He  had  to  ask  her  that. 

"Oh  yes.  Just  a  bit  tired  and  fussy,  perhaps. 
I'll  be  all  right  to-morrow.  You  know  we  are  all 
going  out  to  Murano  and  Burano  to  see  them  make 
glass.  So  don't  get  lost.  .  .  .  brother!" 

'Til  take  care  of  William,"  he  laughed.  "There 
won't  be  anybody  jumping  on  my  back  in  Venice, 
unless  they  can  walk  on  water." 

' '  Jumping  on  your  back  ?    What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

William  succeeded  in  retrieving  his  blunder. 
"Why,  everybody's  been  warning  me  not  to  go  out 
alone  nights  for  fear  of  robbers.  But  they  haven't 
worried  a  nickel  out  of  me  yet.  Say,  I  think  I'll 
jog  around  to  the  hotels  and  see  if  I  can't  pick  up 
Camden.  It's  only  half  past  nine.  This  bargee 
talks  a  little  English,  and  I  can  say  albergo  without 
biting  my  tongue  off.  Good  night." 

Noiselessly  the  gondola  slipped  back  among  the 
painted  piles  into  free  water,  and  presently  its 
lantern  went  bobbing  up  the  Grand  Canal.  The 
girl  watched  the  flickering  yellow  light  until  a 
steamboat  cut  across  it.  Then  she  went  inside. 

William  lighted  a  cigar  and  slumped  down 
against  the  cushions. 

"Where,  Signore?"  asked  the  gondolier,  touch- 
ing his  hat. 

"Anywhere  for  an  hour;  the  Grand  Canal  and 
back." 

William  did  not  care  where  the  gondolier  carried 
him.  He  wanted  leisure  to  think,  to  reconstruct 

142 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

his  castle  of  romance,  to  discover  an  excuse  which 
would  prove  impregnable,  like  Gibraltar.  As  there 
was  no  wind  to  speak  of,  the  house  of  cards  went 
up  rapidly. 

Elsa  Warren;  he  was  now  positive  that  such  a 
person  existed.  She  had  gone  wrong,  and  the  dis- 
grace of  it  had  been  too  much  for  her  sister  to  bear. 
He  saw  the  picture:  Ruth  staid  and  sensible  and 
hard-working,  Elsa  vain  and  selfish  and  flighty, 
and  no  doubt,  lazy.  That  kind  of  a  girl  generally 
went  wrong.  Ruth  had  tried  to  save  her  and  had 
failed. 

The  cigar  was  pleasant,  the  night  was  glorious, 
full  of  ineffable  moonshine  which  fired  the  heavy 
dews  on  church  domes  and  marble  porticos,  mak- 
ing the  house  of  cards  the  only  real,  substantial 
thing  of  the  moment.  Whimsically  he  pictured 
himself  in  court,  arguing  the  case  for  the  defendant. 
His  arguments  seemed  to  have  made  a  profound 
impression  upon  the  jury.  He  rested  his  case. 
Slowly  the  prosecuting  attorney  rose.  William 
confessed  that  his  opponent's  thin,  wintry  smile 
was  rather  disquieting.  What  was  he  going  to 
say? 

"Your  Honor,  I  have  in  the  first  place  to  ac- 
quaint you  with  the  fact  that  there  is  no  such  a 
person  as  Elsa  Warren  and  never  was." 

William  stirred  uneasily. 

"In  the  second  place,  in  order  to  demolish 
my  opponent's  plausible  defense,  I  have  only 
to  place  before  you  this  torn  photograph,  this 
little  chamois  bag,  and  to  submit  this  brief 

143 


prayer,  lately  uttered  by  the  defendant  herself 
on  board  the  ship  Ajax." 

William  sat  up  stiffly.  He  heard  these  words  as 
surely  as  he  heard  the  lap-lap  of  the  water  against 
the  sides  of  the  gondola. 

"I  ask  the  strict  attention  of  the  jury,  your 
Honor,"  went  on  the  prosecuting  attorney,  "while 
I  recite  this  prayer :  '  Dear  God,  make  me  strong. 
Take  out  of  my  heart  the  evil  longings.  Give  me 
strength  always  to  be  good.  Let  me  not  covet 
that  which  is  not  mine.  Clean  my  heart  and  put 
temptation  behind  me.  Amen ! ' " 

"Aw,  hell!"  said  William,  aloud,  crumpling  back 
in  his  seat. 

"Si,  Signore"  replied  the  gondolier,  believing 
lie  had  received  an  order  to  return  to  the  hotel. 

William  did  not  hear  him.  He  was  busy  fighting 
his  way  out  of  court,  out  of  the  house  of  cards  that 
was  tumbling  about  his  ears,  out  into  realities 
again. 

She  was  always  praying.  Never  they  entered  a 
cathedral  that  she  did  not  kneel  in  some  obscure 
corner,  quite  unmindful  of  his  proximity.  Well, 
he  loved  her  none  the  less  for  that.  But  he  knew 
that  it  was  the  yacht  itself  that  had  provoked  that 
stifled  cry.  A  damnable  thought  seeped  in 
through  the  whys  and  wherefores,  but  he  drove  it 
out,  cursing  himself  for  a  low  beast.  After  all, 
hadn't  she  asked  him  not  to  put  her  on  a  pedestal  ? 
Hadn't  she  said  that  she  was  a  human  being  like 
the  rest?  The  pedestal  was  wabbling,  and  he 
mutely  sought  heaven  with  his  gaze  to  see  if  there 

144 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

was  not  some  way  of  steadying  that  shaft  of  ala- 
baster. He  was  only  human  himself,  and  his 
thoughts  would  go  in  a  human  and  not  in  a  celestial 
direction. 

His  school-teacher,  with  her  springing  step,  day 
in  and  day  out,  as  regular  as  the  clock;  his  school- 
teacher who  knew  what  all  these  things  meant, 
who  could  dig  his  soul  out  of  him  when  she  played 
the  piano.  .  .  . 

"Signore!" 

William  looked  up.  They  had  returned  to  the 
marble  steps  of  the  hotel.  The  porter  was 
putting  out  the  carpeted  landing-plank. 

"No,  no;  I  don't  want  to  go  in  yet,"  said  Wil- 
liam. "Say,  porter,  tell  the  man  to  row  me  over 
to  that  white  yacht  there,  the  one  next  to  the 
torpedo-boat.  Ye-ah.  Tell  him  to  row  around  it 
slow  and  close." 

"Yes,  sir."  The  porter  volleyed  a  few  phrases 
at  the  gondolier,  who  returned  them  with  interest, 
gesticulating  wildly. 

William  grinned  in  spite  of  the  ache  in  his  heart. 
He  never  would  get  the  hang  of  these  Latin  voices 
and  elbows.  Dozens  of  times  he  had  stopped 
(shall  I  say  hopefully?)  to  see  the  fight,  only  to 
learn  that  there  wasn't  going  to  be  any,  that  what 
looked  like  the  beginning  of  hostilities  was  in  truth 
nothing  more  serious  than  an  exchange  of  ameni- 
ties. 

The  yacht  Elsa  was  dark  except  for  the  ports  of 
the  dining-saloon.  In  Venetian  waters  the  voice 
carries  remarkably  far.  As  the  gondola  was  edging 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

along  under  these  lighted  ports,  William  heard 
laughter — men's  laughter.  He  raised  his  hand 
quickly  to  signify  that  he  wished  to  stop.  He  was 
not  overscrupulous  to-night. 

"...  And  so  I  sent  it  back  to  New  York." 

"But  why  didn't  you  keep  it?" 

"What  good  would  that  have  done?  Besides, 
the  jackal  isn't  so  much  a  thief  as  he  is  a  taker  of 
leavings.  Bah!" 

There  followed  the  light  tinkle  of  glass.  Wil- 
liam strained  his  ears.  The  voice  of  the  man  who 
called  himself  a  jackal  was  tantalizingly  familiar 
and  at  the  same  time  it  persistently  eluded  identi- 
fication. 

"I  tell  you  the  whole  thing  smacks  of  cheap 
melodrama,"  declared  the  jackal. 

"I  wish  you'd  drop  that  lecturing  tone,"  replied 
the  other  voice,  which  was  not  familiar  at  all. 

"The  jackal  apologizes." 

"Jackal?" 

"Well,  what  am  I  if  not  a  jackal?  Why  put 
frills  on  it  and  call  me  your  man  of  affairs?  Why 
try  to  get  around  it  with  verbal  soft-soap?  I'm  a 
sneak.  It  doesn't  matter  that  once  upon  a  time 
I  lived  on  the  decent  side  of  the  street.  The  fact 
is  incontrovertible  that  I'm  your  jackal.  I've 
done  this  kind  of  work  for  you  before;  so  what  the 
devil?  True,  I  never  bargained  for  a  chase  like 
this.  I've  done  the  work  you've  hired  me  to  do, 
and  here's  my  little  bill  for  the  same,  Orestes !" 

"Orestes,"  murmured  William;  "sounds  like 
dago  or  Spanish." 

146 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"And  the  bill  shall  be  paid  on  the  nail  in  the 
morning." 

"I  never  doubted  that  for  a  moment.  There's 
one  thing  about  us  two:  when  I  promise  to  do  a 
dirty  bit  of  work  for  you,  I  do  it;  and  when  you 
promise  to  pay,  you  pay." 

"What  the  devil's  got  into  you  to-night?" 

"I  am  getting  older,  and  the  older  I  grow  the 
sicker  I  grow.  Want  the  truth?  I  don't  like  the 
looks  of  this  job  for  a  cent.  I  think  you're  in  the 
wrong  valley,  my  Pied  Piper.  If  I  were  in  your 
patent-leathers,  I'd  turn  this  hooker's  nose  back 
toward  New  York  and  stick  to  the  old  stuff." 

Below,  William  scowled.  This  conversation  was 
all  more  or  less  Greek  to  him.  One  voice  was  famil- 
iar, but  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  place  it. 
It  might  be  that  Ruth  had  told  him  the  truth,  that 
she  was  tired  and  fussy  because  of  the  long  journey 
on  the  train. 

"...  Ahoy,  there!  What  do  you  mean  by 
sneaking  up  alongside  this  way?" 

"Where  do  you  get  that  noise?"  snarled  back 
William,  furious  at  having  been  interrupted.  A 
few  more  words  between  the  two  men  inside  the 
yacht  might  have  decided  the  matter  one  way  or 
the  other  definitely.  "This  is  free  water,  I  guess." 

"Sure  it  is;  and  the  freer  the  better  for  you. 
We  don't  like  snoops  sticking  their  noses  into  our 
paint.  Get  a  move  on  or  I'll  drop  a  bucket  of 
slops  on  you,  my  handsome  rubberneck." 

"Try  it,  you  big  boob!  I  wouldn't  mind  a  few 
minutes'  close  harmony  with  you." 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Lor'  lumme,  if  it  ain't  some  white  hope  out  for 
a  lark!"  jeered  the  man  at  the  rail.  "Move  on, 
and  none  of  your  lip.  You  hear  me ?  I'll  give  you 
twenty-nine  seconds  to  sheer  of." 

"Hotel,"  growled  William,  sitting  down.  The 
man  above  had  two  distinct  advantages — height 
and  right. 

The  veneer  with  which  we  solemnly  incase  our- 
selves consists  mostly  of  the  observance  of  certain 
formalities  of  conduct;  under  stress  of  emotion 
this  veneer  is  not  impervious;  it  cracks.  We 
don't  listen  at  windows  or  peek  through  keyholes, 
ordinarily.  William  was  perfectly  well  aware  of 
this  fact.  But  it  was  not  idle  curiosity,  this  act  of 
his.  Subtilely  he  construed  it  as  merely  recon- 
noitering  the  defense  of  an  enemy,  dim,  nebulous, 
but  none  the  less  menacing. 

"Here,  what's  the  row  out  there?" 

A  head  appeared  at  one  of  the  saloon  ports. 
The  face  was  dead  black  against  the  yellow  light 
behind  it. 

"A  tourist  snooping  about,  sir,"  called  down  the 
seaman  in  answer. 

"Bid  him  clear  out." 

"I'm  clearing  out,"  said  William,  as  the  gondola 
shot  forward.  "If  I've  scraped  off  any  of  the 
frosting  from  that  angel-cake  of  yours,  charge  it  to 
Cook." 

He  heard  an  order  shouted,  but  he  was  now  too 
far  away  to  gather  its  import.  About  two  minutes 
later  a  blinding  flash  of  light  struck  his  face,  for  he 
was  looking  over  his  shoulder.  He  ducked,  pulling 

148 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

down  his  hat  instinctively.  They  had  turned  the 
yacht's  search-light  upon  him.  It  was  only  when 
the  silver  flame  of  the  ferrule  turned  the  point  of 
the  customs-house  that  the  gondola  was  able  to 
lose  the  powerful  rays. 

"Hotel,"  repeated  William,  moodily. 

Once  in  his  room  he  smoked  his  pipe  until  his 
tongue  smarted.  The  yacht  Elsa,  Ruth  and  those 
two  unknown  men  (one  of  whom  possessed  a  voice 
which  irritated  him  beyond  measure  because  he 
knew  that  he  had  heard  it  before  but  couldn't 
identify  it)  were  associated  in  some  sinister  way. 
It  was  useless  to  argue  to  the  contrary.  The  name 
of  the  yacht  had  forced  a  cry  from  the  girl.  One 
of  these  men  had  spoken  of  a  chase.  One  admitted 
that  he  was  a  jackal,  and  the  other  paid  on  the 
nail.  William  did  not  ask  what  was  paid  for  on 
the  nail.  It  seemed  as  if  a  thousand  little  windows 
were  opening  in  his  brain  and  that  his  soul  was 
running  frantically  about  in  a  vain  endeavor  to 
shut  them  against  the  invasion  of  a  terrible 
thought. 

It  was  futile  to  shake  his  head,  to  beat  fist  upon 
palm,  to  give  way  to  a  torrent  of  self -invective ;  the 
thought  was  not  to  be  dissipated  by  will.  ...  A 
house  all  his  own,  a  garden  to  play  in,  a  wife  and  a 
couple  of  kids!  He  laughed,  but  the  laughter 
strangled  and  died  in  his  throat.  He  held  his 
head  in  his  hands.  He  was  badly  hurt;  for  he 
wasn't  the  kind  who  fell  in  love  and  out,  as  one 
exchanged  an  old  coat  for  a  new.  It  had  gone 
down  into  the  very  marrow  of  his  bones,  and 

149 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

would  stay  there,  part  and  parcel  of  his  marrow, 
until  the  crack  of  doom. 

The  basic  characteristic  of  the  Celt  is  loyalty. 
It  is  historically  true  that  loyalty  is  about  all  the 
gold  he  has;  and  many  a  king  has  drawn  upon  it 
and  later  repudiated  the  loan.  But  still  he  goes 
on,  up  and  down  the  world,  giving  his  loyalty  when 
and  where  it  is  asked  and  taking  in  exchange 
promissory  notes  that  go  to  protest.  As  a  soldier 
he  has  been  loyal  to  faithless  kings,  as  a  husband  he 
has  been  loyal  to  faithless  wives.  So,  what 
though  his  heart  was  heavy  and  his  brain  in  tur- 
moil, William  buckled  on  that  bright  armor 
which  was  his  heritage  and  swore  to  uphold  his 
pledge.  Then  he  went  to  bed. 

On  the  fourth  and  last  morning  in  Venice  part  of 
the  riddle  was  solved.  That  night  the  tourists 
were  to  leave  for  Brindisi,  where  they  were  to  pick 
up  the  Ajax.  William  and  Ruth  had  gone  early 
into  St.  Mark's  to  feed  the  doves.  It  was  nearly 
nine ;  previously  they  had  fed  the  birds  by  half  after 
eight  and  were  off  on  their  sight-seeing  pilgrimage. 

She  was  always  stealing  glances  over  her  shoul- 
ders now.  There  was  not  exactly  the  hunted  look 
in  her  eyes,  but  there  was  indication  of  tense 
anxiety.  William  made  no  comment,  asked  no 
questions,  but  jogged  along  at  her  side  with  his 
usual  comic  observations.  Sooner  or  later,  if  left 
alone,  she  would  discover  to  him  the  man  he 
wanted.  He  had  no  plan  of  action;  but  whenever 
he  thought  of  this  meeting  his  nails  bit  into  his 
palms  pleasurably. 

150 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

This  morning  he  prevailed  upon  her  to  stand  by 
one  of  the  huge  bronze  flagstaffs  and  have  her 
photograph  taken.  She  had  promised,  and  he  re- 
fused to  listen  to  any  excuses  relative  to  dress 
and  hats  and  carelessly  done  hair.  He  threw  a 
handful  of  corn  into  the  air  above  her,  and  the 
camera-man  snapped  her  with  the  slate-colored 
doves  fluttering  upon  her  shoulders  and  arms.  It 
was  a  charming  picture,  with  that  wonderful 
background  of  colored  marbles  and  white  sunshine. 

"Aren't  they  beautiful,  the  soft,  coral-footed, 
feather-breasted  things!  If  I  ever  have  a  garden 
I'm  going  to  have  a  dove-cote." 

"As  many  as  you  like,"  said  William. 

She  was  naturally  without  the  least  suspicion 
that  there  was  anything  serious  behind  this  pleas- 
antry. Besides,  she  would  have  dismissed  it  as 
absurd.  She  had  not  yet  really  labeled  William. 
Women  usually  mark  the  male  as  dangerous  or 
harmless,  and  she  had  come  to  accept  him  as 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other :  which  is  to  say  that 
William  was  a  diplomat  of  no  mean  order.  He 
was  always  at  her  side,  and  she  was  beginning  to 
turn  over  to  him  the  trifling  little  labors  of  the  day. 
He  saw  to  it  that  she  had  the  latest  magazines ;  he 
ran  unimportant  errands,  argued  with  porters  and 
cabmen  and  shopkeepers,  shooed  off  importunate 
beggars,  handled  the  tickets,  and  sometimes  took 
care  of  her  circular  notes  or  express  checks  because 
she  had  a  weakness  for  old  filet. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  accepted  these  labors 
with  a  comradeship  which  was  neither  presuming 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

nor  particularly  humble  that  she  had  not  bothered 
to  catalogue  him.  When  he  shook  hands  with  her, 
there  was  never  that  extra  pressure  which  the 
average  woman  learns  to  dread. 

William  guarded  his  secret  well;  neither  in  his 
voice  nor  in  his  eyes  was  there  ever  a  hint  of  the 
volcano  bubbling  and  seething  below.  It  was 
only  when  he  was  alone  and  unobserved  that  little 
craters  opened  up  to  relieve  the  pressure.  No 
doubt  this  required  a  good  deal  of  will-power.  But 
there  was  this  fact  always  before  him:  he  was 
going  to  watch  over  this  school-teacher  of  his  until 
she  was  safely  home. 

So,  then,  to  her  he  was  a  good  comrade,  amusing, 
lively;  but  she  rarely  carried  any  thought  of  him 
over  the  threshold  of  her  room. 

She  stepped  down  from  the  pedestal,  brushing 
the  corn  dust  from  her  hands  and  sleeves. 

"Say,  sister,  would  you  mind  feeding  the  doves 
for  five  minutes  while  I  hike  up  the  alley  there," 
pointing  under  the  clock,  "and  get  some  tobacco? 
I'm  dying  for  a  smoke." 

"Run  along.  I  could  stay  here  all  day  with 
these  doves." 

William  thereupon  settled  his  hat  firmly  and 
darted  across  the  square,  disappearing  up  the 
"alley,"  as  he  called  the  Merceria. 

Ruth  squatted  to  the  pavement  and  began 
sprinkling  the  corn  about.  She  had  learned  that 
it  did  not  pay  to  feed  the  doves  too  much  at  once. 
They  were  ungrateful  little  beggars ;  and,  well  fed, 
they  were  quite  likely  to  depart  by  twos  and  threes 

152 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

to  their  perches  among  the  statues  and  capitals  of 
the  palaces.  The  last  yellow  kernel  vanished 
and  Ruth  stood  up. 

"And  so  I  find  you!" 

Ruth  turned  her  head  at  the  sound  of  this  voice 
which  was  not  William  Grogan's.  Beyond  this 
action,  however,  she  was  unable  to  move.  She 
could  only  stare  and  stare,  hypnotized.  Presently 
the  numbness  gave  way  to  needle-like  tingling,  and 
she  found  that  she  could  use  her  legs.  She  re- 
treated slowly,  intending  to  run  when  all  her 
strength  had  returned,  but  unfortunately  for  this 
project  her  shoulders  came  into  contact  with  a 
pillar  of  the  portico.  The  stranger  had  followed 
her  step  by  step  and  paused  when  she  paused. 

William,  approaching  rapidly  across  the  square, 
saw  the  tableau.  A  masher?  He  would  attend 
to  that.  He  began  to  run.  He  arrived  just  as  the 
stranger  laid  hold  of  Ruth's  wrist. 

Immediately  the  stranger  felt  two  strong  hands 
embed  their  fingers  in  his  shoulders  and  he  was 
irresistibly  whirled  right  about  face.  The  freckled 
countenance  he  looked  into  was  wreathed  in  the 
most  amiable  of  smiles,  but  the  blue  eyes  were  as 
cold  and  beautiful  and  merciless  as  winter  stars. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AT  the  side  of  the  doorway  leading  into  one  of 
those  amazing  Venetian  glass-shops  stood  two 
carabinieri.  They  were  watching  the  little  scene 
curiously,  wondering  if  they  would  be  called  in  to 
take  part.  In  St.  Mark's  the  carabinieri  are  always 
watching.  There  is  at  least  one  spot  in  Italy 
where  a  woman  may  walk  alone,  assured  of  pro- 
tection. So  these  two  watched  and  waited.  The 
smile  on  William's  face  puzzled  them.  They  did 
not  see  his  eyes  as  Ruth  did. 

To  her  the  smile  was  not  a  puzzle,  but  a  revela- 
tion, for  she  saw  the  tiger  behind  it.  The  eyes 
seemed  actually  to  diffuse  an  electric  fluid  so 
strong  that  it  touched  and  vivified  her  who  stood 
at  least  three  feet  away.  He  must  have  looked 
like  this  that  day  when,  unarmed,  he  had  gone 
down  boldly  into  the  den  of  the  Black-Handers  and 
fought  for  Tommaso's  boy.  The  conspicuity  of 
the  freckles  alone  would  have  marked  the  high 
tide  of  his  anger,  none  the  less  deadly  because  of 
the  bantering  smile. 

And  she  had  patronized  him,  casually  accepted 
the  gift  of  his  friendship  as  one  accepted  a  book,  a 
box  of  candy,  or  a  bouquet  of  flowers !  She  could 
not  have  been  more  astonished  if  she  had  seen  a 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

lazy  house-cat  suddenly  transformed  into  a  lord  of 
the  jungle.  The  ridiculous  complacency  of  her 
previous  attitude  came  home  to  her  forcibly ;  and 
instantly  she  knew  that  William  Grogan  was  be- 
come an  integral  part  of  her  future.  She  was  able 
to  grasp  this  fact  hazily.  Strange  are  the  incon- 
sistencies of  human  nature.  An  hour  ago  he 
might  have  passed  out  of  her  life  and  left  only  a 
negligible  ripple  of  regret  behind.  And  now  she 
wanted  to  hold  this  loyalty  in  hoops  of  steel. 

As  William  stared  into  the  dark,  handsome  face 
of  his  prisoner  his  heart  seemed  to  drop  down, 
down  into  some  bottomless  pit  over  which  the 
winds  played  gipsy  music.  Gipsy  music !  He  saw 
a  quiet  restaurant,  a  young  woman  in  flight,  a  man 
in  evening  clothes  pursuing,  his  own  intervention. 
The  smile  on  his  face,  however,  did  not  waver. 

"Well,  Sir  Hurlbert,"  he  drawled,  "we  meet 
again!" 

"Take  your  hands  off  my  shoulders!"  cried  the 
stranger,  angrily.  There  was  something  vaguely 
familiar  about  this  truculent  though  smiling  face 
so  close  to  his  own,  but  in  that  moment  he  could 
not  recollect  where  he  had  seen  it. 

"Would  you  like  'em  around  your  throat?" 
The  bantering  smile  vanished.  "You  scum!  If 
it  wasn't  for  those  cocked  hats,  I'd  break  every 
bone  in  your  body!  Can't  leave  'em  alone,  no 
matter  where  you  travel,  can  you?  Listen.  If 
you  ever  see  me  again,  cross  over  to  the  other  side 
of  the  street.  That's  all  for  this  morning,  m' 
lord." 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

William  dropped  his  hands  and  stepped  back 
quietly,  ready  in  case  the  other  made  a  hostile 
move,  which  William  naturally  hoped  he  would. 

But  the  man  of  the  world  merely  settled  his  de- 
ranged coat-collar  and  turned  to  the  carabinieri, 
who  had  moved  forward.  His  Italian  was  good. 
The  carabinieri  listened  passively. 

Ruth  knew  only  a  few  Italian  phrases,  not 
enough  to  permit  her  to  follow  this  monologue ;  but 
instinct  warned  her  that  a  very  bad  case  was  being 
made  out  against  William. 

She  interrupted.  ' ' Non  6  vero!  non  $  vero!"  ("It 
is  not  true!")  She  laid  her  hand  upon  William's 
arm  and  smiled  with  a  confidence  she  did  not  feel. 

One  of  the  carabinieri  smiled  back  at  her,  looked 
calmly  into  the  stranger's  face,  and  made  a  simple 
gesture  with  his  white-gloved  hand.  There  was 
a  protest.  The  second  gesture  was  imperative. 
Recognizing  the  futility  of  further  argument,  the 
stranger  shrugged  and  walked  away. 

Then  the  carabinieri  turned  their  backs  upon 
William  and  Ruth  and  strolled  across  the  square. 
They  were  always  reluctant  to  arrest  these  mad 
Americans,  with  their  strange  ideas  of  personal 
liberty,  their  utter  disregard  of  the  laws  of  the 
countries  they  rushed  into  and  out  of  breathlessly. 
If  they  could  settle  such  encounters  with  simple 
street  justice,  it  was  sufficient.  Besides,  the  young 
woman  was  pretty. 

"Please  take  me  back  to  the  hotel,"  said  Ruth. 

"Sure,  sister." 

William  tucked  her  arm  under  his  and  started 
156 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

off,  the  old  familiar  smile  wrinkling  his  cheeks. 
He  measured  his  steps  with  hers  and  talked  ir- 
relevantly. At  the  door  of  the  hotel  she  faced  him. 
She  had  been  crying,  and  he  had  not  suspected ! 

"Aw,  sister!  You  mustn't  let  anything  like 
that  bother  you.  What's  a  chance  encounter  with 
a  man  like  that,  when  you  know  I'm  coming  around 
the  corner?  There's  only  a  few  of  his  breed;  the 
rest  of  us  average  up  fair." 

"You  .  .  .  you  know  who  he  is?" 

"All  New  York  knows  Norton  Colburton,  I 
guess.  I've  seen  him  at  boxing-matches.  What's 
the  use  of  talking  about  him  ?  But  it's  on  the  card 
that  when  I  run  into  him  again  it  '11  take  a  regi- 
ment of  bone-setters  to  put  Hurnpty  Dumpty 
together  again." 

' '  Please,  no ;  for  my  sake. ' ' 

"I'll  think  it  over.  What  line  of  talk  was  he 
giving  the  police?" 

"I  couldn't  understand;  and  I  spoke  the  only 
phrase  I  could  think  of,  trusting  to  luck." 

"And  luck  it  was,  sister — Irish  luck.  I  felt  it 
in  my  bones  he  was  trying  to  land  me  in  jail. 
Those  cocked  hats  are  all  sunshine.  I  won't  laugh 
at  'em  any  more.  You  see,  Colburton  and  I  had  a 
clash  one  night  last  June.  He  recognized  me  as 
the  guy  who  butted  into  one  of  his  games.  I  was 
coming  along  just  as  a  young  woman  came  running 
out  of  Juneau's.  I  couldn't  see  what  she  looked 
like,  but  I  had  a  hunch  that  she  had  good  reasons 
for  hiking.  Colburton  came  rushing  out  a  minute 
later,  but  he  didn't  go  far.  Now,  you  run  along 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

to  your  room  and  stay  there  until  lunch.  Then 
we'll  take  the  steamer  over  to  the  Lido." 

"You're  a  good  man,  William  Grogan." 

"Aw!    You  trust  me,  sister,  don't  you?" 

She  caught  his  hand  between  her  two  small  ones 
and  pressed  tightly.  "Absolutely,  as  I  have  never 
trusted  any  man  but  my  father." 

"Well,  when  I  gave  you  my  hand  that  day  on 
the  Ajax,  that  was  all  there  was  to  it." 

She  let  go  his  hand  and  ran  blindly  for  the 
stairs. 

William  stared  at  the  vacant  doorway  for  a 
moment,  shrugged,  and  walked  down  to  the  end  of 
the  Calle,  or  little  street,  where  the  bright  ferrules 
of  the  gondolas  bobbed  a  howdy-do  to  him. 
Several  gondoliers  raised  their  black  felt  hats  ex- 
pectantly, but  he  shook  his  head  and  perched 
himself  upon  the  rail  and  glowered  across  the  water 
at  the  yacht  Elsa. 

"Scum!"  William  growled  as  he  saw  a  gondola 
draw  alongside  the  ladder.  "But  wait;  I'm  going 
to  get  you  some  day  just  where  I  want  you,  and 
what  the  monkey  did  to  the  parrot.  ..." 

He  gazed  on,  wishing  that  he  had  some  secret 
kind  of  torpedo,  guided  solely  by  the  will,  to 
launch  at  that  yacht.  Money;  he  thought  he 
could  do  these  things  because  he  had  money!  A 
series  of  expletives  rumbled  over  William's  lips, 
for  when  he  felt  strongly  he  swore  strongly.  What 
would  you?  He  was  in  many  essentials  a  primi- 
tive man;  nevertheless,  he  had  a  fine  code  of 
honor  and,  what  is  more,  plenty  of  moral  fiber  to 

158 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

back  it.  To  cheat,  to  lie,  to  borrow  money  and 
never  pay  it  back,  to  break  a  promise,  to  play 
hooky  on  the  job,  to  waste  the  pay-envelope  across 
the  bar  while  the  landlady  waited,  to  ogle  women 
on  the  street,  to  hunt  them  for  amusement — 
these  things  went  against  the  straight,  clean  grain 
of  him. 

Women?  he  mused.  He  would  never  understand 
women,  not  if  he  had  as  many  around  him  as 
King  Solomon  had  and  overtopped  Methuselah 
in  the  matter  of  years.  So  she  had  run  afoul  of 
Norton  Colburton,  got  her  fingers  in  the  cobweb, 
and  the  spider  had  nipped  them?  And  then  to 
run  four  thousand  miles,  with  the  idea  of  running 
sixteen  thousand  more !  That  was  the  real  puzzle. 
To  get  rid  of  the  attentions  of  men  like  Colburton 
women  did  not  have  to  run  any  farther  than  the 
nearest  police  precinct.  But  twenty  thousand 
miles!  What  was  the  idea? 

He  slumped  forward  on  the  rail. 

Why  did  they  do  it?  Sometimes  they  went 
astray  for  a  great  love;  he  could  understand  that. 
But  what  he  could  not  understand  was  that  ordi- 
narily an  automobile  was  enough,  a  necklace,  may- 
be a  little  silk  and  a  little  fur  to  excite  the  envy  of 
her  friends.  True,  often  the  poor  little  shop-girl 
sold  out  for  food  and  shoes;  he  could  understand 
that,  too.  But  the  automobile?  .  .  .  No,  there 
wasn't  any  mystery  now;-  nearly  all  the  little 
blocks  of  the  puzzle  fitted  in  their  allotted  places. 
An  old  story — God  alone  knew  how  old — the  an- 
cient man-and-woman  story.  A  pinch  of  poverty, 

159 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

a  taste  of  the  winter  wind,  and  they  gave  up. 
Sometimes  the  unattractive  one  found  the  river 
the  only  way.  Always  they  wanted  a  warm  fire 
for  their  pretty  shins  and  the  devil  for  butler. 
They  couldn't  hang  on  just  a  little  longer,  could 
they?  They  had  to  give  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
fight — and  always  the  pretty  ones. 

His  school-teacher!  How  many  times  had  he 
watched  her  trim  feet  flit  one-two-three  past  his 
cellar  window!  And  here  she  was  and  there  he 
was!  She  had  poked  her  curious  fingers  into  the 
web,  and  hadn't  got  away  quite  free.  A  low 
crook  with  women,  and  all  his  money  couldn't 
change  that. 

"Well,  somewhere  between  here  and  San  Fran- 
cisco I'm  going  to  get  you,  Handsome-Is.  I  know 
your  breed.  You  won't  give  up  until  you're 
broken  up;  and  I'm  going  to  turn  that  little  trick." 

After  a  while  he  remembered  her  tears,  and  the 
taste  of  life  became  less  bitter.  There  might  be  a 
block  or  two  in  the  puzzle  that  wasn't  in  its  right 
place.  A  fragment  of  the  prayer  recurred  to  him. 
"Give  me  always  strength  to  be  good."  He  slid 
off  the  rail.  Maybe  that  line  was  open  to  a  new 
interpretation.  Sooner  or  later  she  would  tell 
him;  it  wasn't  square  to  judge  a  case  without  hav- 
ing all  the  evidence.  He  knew  what  the  matter 
was,  he  had  seen  too  much  of  the  seamy  side  of 
life,  and  when  confronted  by  such  problems  as  this 
his  outlook  was  on  the  bias,  cynical,  despite  the 
fact  that  he  knew  that  circumstantial  evidence  had 
ruined  more  women  than  it  had  hanged  men. 

160 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

"Say,  I'm  a  real  guy,  I  am,"  he  burst  forth, 
angrily.  "How  do  I  know  that  it  was  Ruth  that 
ran  out  of  Juneau's?  Suppose  it  was  a  chance 
meeting.  He  never  lets  a  pretty  face  go  by. 
What  do  I  know,  anyhow?  What  if  he  did  have 
hold  of  her  wrist  ?  I've  got  a  whole  lot  of  charity. 
What  has  she  told  me?  Nothing.  Buck  up, 
Bill,  and  go  buy  the  little  lady  some  flowers. 
They  may  come  in  handy." 

So  the  upshot  of  these  cogitations,  these  little 
excursions  into  blind  alleys,  was  a  visit  to  the 
near-by  florist's.  He  purchased  a  dozen  beautiful 
roses  and  had  them  sent  up  to  her  room.  He 
loved  flowers  as  he  loved  children.  He  never 
conjured  up  that  fairy-tale  house  of  his  without 
seeing  lilac-bushes  and  ramblers.  He  had  no  idea 
about  formal  beds,  nor  did  he  know  the  names  of 
more  than  half  a  dozen  flowers.  But  he  wanted 
the  whole  front  yard  choked  with  color  and  per- 
fume. Many  a  time,  in  the  old  days,  his  news- 
papers snug  under  his  arm,  he  had  paused  before 
some  florist's  shop,  the  bitter  snow  chilling  his 
thinly  clad  legs,  and  wondered  how  there  could  be 
roses  in  midwinter. 

The  girl  cried  over  those  flowers. 

But  the  gift  did  not  rid  him  of  the  infernal  specu- 
lation. Twice  he  became  lost  because  he  saw  only 
the  pavement;  and  half  a  dozen  times  he  was 
brought  up  sharply  by  some  canal  opening  unex- 
pectedly at  his  feet.  If  his  theories  had  been 
solids  there  would  have  been  many  a  mysterious 
splash  in  the  Venetian  canals  that  morning; 

161 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

for  one  by  one  his  theories  went  overboard.  We 
all  have  our  Ponte  del  Sospiri,  our  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
and  William  was  crossing  his. 

At  two  o'clock  that  afternoon  they  took  the 
steamboat  for  the  Lido.  William  was  deeply 
puzzled,  for  there  was  no  sign  of  recent  tears. 
She  was  gay.  He  had  yet  to  learn  that  woman 
with  mortal  hurt  can  laugh.  She  led  him  to  the 
bench  on  the  starboard  bow,  thus  placing  the 
Giudecca  at  their  backs.  Two  birds  with  one 
stone  was  his  comment;  for  this  bench  was  the 
choicest.  From  it  one  saw  the  rainbow  city 
sink  back  into  the  soft  veils  of  the  September 
mists,  and  a  little  later,  when  they  were  half-way 
across  the  lagoon,  the  lordly  snow-crests  of  the 
Dolomites  came  into  view. 

Throughout  the  afternoon  he  found  himself 
being  led.  In  vain  he  waited  for  some  word  re- 
garding the  episode  of  the  morning.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  this  butterfly  creature  was  the 
woman  he  had  seen  in  tears. 

She  plumped  down  into  the  fine  white  sand  and 
built  castles,  commented  upon  the  variegated 
costumes  of  the  bathers  and  the  equally  variegated 
physiques.  She  recounted  amusing  incidents 
among  her  scholars.  His  bewilderment  continued 
to  grow  until  it  served  to  render  him  monosyllabic. 
There  wasn't  a  crack  in  this  astonishing  armor  of 
hers.  And  he  had  started  out  with  the  idea  of 
making  her  forget  her  troubles!  But  as  they  sat 
down  in  the  pavilion  for  tea  and  cakes,  later,  he 
heard  her  gasp  painfully. 

162 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"What  is  it?" 

She  pointed  out  to  sea.  William  turned  and  saw 
the  yacht  Elsa  boring  southward  down  the  blue 
Adriatic,  serenely  beautiful  in  the  September 
sunshine. 

"Forget  it,  sister.  Things  like  that  '11  happen 
anywhere.  When  a  woman  travels  alone  she's  a 
hard  row  to  hoe,  believe  me.  But  there's  more 
good  men  than  bad.  Gee!  if  those  cocked  hats 
hadn't  been  in  the  way,  I'd  have  whaled  the  day- 
lights out  of  him.  You  can't  talk  to  that  kind. 
They're  like  hyenas;  they  don't  understand 
petting.  You  have  to  beat  'em  up.  And  now, 
you're  not  standing  alone;  Willie  Grogan's  in  your 
corner." 

He  laid  his  big,  warm  hand  over  hers.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  ventured  to  touch  her  in 
this  fashion.  She  smiled  faintly  and  withdrew 
her  hand. 

Presently,  as  her  gaze  wandered  seaward  again, 
this  hand  stole  up  unconsciously  and  rested  where 
the  little  chamois  bag  lay  hidden.  Upon  the 
observant  William  the  act  had  the  effect  of  a 
stab.  Why  hadn't  they  left  him  in  his  smelly 
cellar,  among  his  drains  and  pipes  and  unspoiled 
dreams  ? 

What  was  in  that  chamois  bag?  What  lay  in 
the  past  back  of  it?  After  all,  had  it  been  Ruth 
that  night?  Was  he  letting  his  imagination  es- 
tablish as  fact  something  which  had  never  hap- 
pened? She  might  have  met  Colburton  casually 
in  New  York,  and  he  had  taken  advantage  of  it 

163 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

that  morning  in  the  Piazza.  Colburton  was  not 
above  that;  that  was  his  particular  style.  There 
was  nothing  in  all  this  to  indicate  that  Ruth  was 
the  young  woman  who  had  come  flying  out  of  the 
restaurant. 

He  stared  at  the  yacht  again,  somberly.  The 
old  wives'  prescience,  which  every  Irishman  has 
tucked  away  somewhere  in  his  soul,  warned  him 
that  he  had  not  seen  the  last  of  the  Elsa.  This 
occult  knowledge  elated  rather  than  depressed 
him.  A  good  fight  somewhere  along  the  route — 
he  had  no  objections  to  that. 

Ruth,  as  she  studied  that  homely  face,  freckled 
and  sunburnt,  with  its  beautiful  eyes  singularly 
idealizing  the  comic  background,  not  too  far  away, 
not  too  near,  just  the  table  between,  knew  that 
here  was  a  promise  of  security  such  as  she  had 
never  known.  And  she  mused  over  the  oddities 
of  God's  distribution  of  shapes  and  souls. 

"William  Grogan,"  she  murmured. 

"Huh?"  he  said,  turning. 

"I  was  thinking  out  loud." 

"And  taking  my  name  in  vain — uh-huh.  Sis- 
ter, I'm  going  to  ask  you  just  two  questions. 
Answer  'em  or  not,  just  as  you  please.  Did  you 
ever  meet  that  man  before?" 

' '  Yes. ' '     Her  voice  was  dull. 

"And  was  it  you  that  came  running  out  of 
Juneau's  that  night  last  June?"  With  all  his  soul 
he  hoped  she  would  say  no.  It  would  not  matter 
if  she  lied;  anything  but  evasion. 

She  nodded  affirmatively.  He  noticed  that  her 
164 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

agitation  was  gone;  she  was  only  tired  and  list- 
less. Once  more  she  turned  toward  the  sea. 

"That's  all  I  wanted  to  know,  sister.  Say, 
ain't  I  the  little  old  guardian  ?  Think  of  me  being 
Johnny-on-the-spot  that  night!"  he  added,  cheer- 
fully. 

In  spirit,  however,  he  was  already  wandering 
through  that  human  hell  whose  dimensions  are  in 
exact  ratio  to  the  strength  of  one's  love.  William 
loved  deeply,  so  he  went,  down  deeply.  But  he 
knew  how  to  cover  up,  to  hide  pain,  to  jog  along 
without  plaint,  without  hope.  Love  is  only  an 
exalted  kind  of  torture. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

*"PHE  tourist  train  from  Venice  drew  into  Brin- 
A  disi  late  at  night,  and  the  menagerie,  as 
William  now  dubbed  his  fellow-tourists,  made 
straight  for  the  Ark.  A  mild  condition  of  pande- 
monium reigned  for  a  time.  Those  who  had  taken 
the  Sicilian  trip,  and  those  who  had  remained  in  or 
near  by  Naples,  had  arrived  earlier;  and  they  all 
had  to  compare  notes  at  once.  Of  course,  William 
understood  that  notes  of  this  character  were  perish- 
able and  were  not  fit  to  exchange  twelve  hours 
later,  and  he  was  conditionally  charitable  in  his 
comments.  It  was  after  midnight  before  the  con- 
fusion quieted  down. 

William  was  genuinely  glad  to  see  his  two  an- 
cients, the  archeologists.  They  had  been  bur- 
rowing among  the  fresh  excavations  at  Pompeii 
and  Herculaneum,  and  were  as  happy  as  two  boys 
on  a  summer's  Saturday  afternoon.  They  talked 
across  him,  over  and  around  him,  crackling  like 
firecrackers.  When  they  finally  went  below  Wil- 
liam felt  very  lonely  and  very  old. 

The  truth  is,  the  nearest  approach  to  happiness 
possible  to  William  was  work  for  his  hands;  and 
these  hands  of  his  had  been  practically  idle  for 
weeks.  His  brain  was  healthy  and  normal,  but 

1 66 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

it  had  not  been  constructed  for  the  solving  of 
problems.  It  readily  absorbed  pictures  and  con- 
strued their  import  relative  to  life,  but  in  the  realm 
of  pure  thinking  it  was  the  old  story  of  the  round 
peg  in  the  square  hole. 

The  problem  which  confronted  him  was  too  big 
for  his  resources,  too  deep  for  his  deductions  to 
reach  bottom,  and  too  close  for  a  clear  perspective. 
When  a  man's  in  love  he  is  not  much  good  for 
anything  else.  William  tried  in  vain  to  crush  down 
this  love,  to  divorce  it  from  the  sexual,  to  play 
the  brother  in  spirit  as  well  as  in  fact.  But  he 
never  came  close  to  Ruth  now  that  he  did  not  long 
fiercely  to  snatch  her  up  in  his  arms  and  never  let 
her  go.  How  long  could  he  hold  out?  He  lacked 
the  diversions  of  a  well-educated  man;  the  obses- 
sion was  always  with  him.  Why  hadn't  he  some 
fad  like  these  two  archeologists,  something  that 
would  for  the  time  being  make  him  forget  every- 
thing else  in  the  world?  Once  upon  a  time  he  had 
poked  fun  at  them ;  now  he  envied  them  from  the 
bottom  of  his  heart.  They  never  knew  any 
heartaches.  Naturally  he  forgot  that  these  two 
old  bachelors  had  once  been  young  like  himself. 
And  who  was  he  to  say  that  they  carried  no  tombs 
in  their  hearts? 

In  no  mood  for  his  bunk,  William  loitered  by  the 
gang-plank  and  smoked.  There  came  an  interval 
when  both  dock  and  ship  seemed  deserted  except 
for  himself.  Presently  he  saw  a  man  emerge 
from  the  gloom,  stagger  to  the  gang-plank,  and 
climb  up.  His  efforts  were  spasmodic.  He  would 
12  167 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

pull  himself  up  a  few  feet  by  hauling  at  the  rail, 
then  he  would  rest  for  a  moment.  William  eyed 
him  callously.  It  was  some  one  who  was  going  to 
have  a  fine  headache  in  the  morning.  As  the 
straggler  came  under  the  cluster  of  lights,  he 
steadied  himself  as  if  marshaling  what  remained 
of  his  forces. 

"Hello,  Camden!" 

The  man  peered  into  William's  face.  "Well,  if 
it  isn't  m'  old  frien'  W.  Grogan !  But  your  face  is 
like  Gaul,  divided  int'  three  parts.  Any  one  of 
'em  '11  do  me.  Remember  what  you  said?  I'll 
have  that  kink  in  m'  back  in  the  morning,  all 
righty.  Ye  gods,  to  get  back  to  sea,  where  it's 
clean!" 

"Want  a 'pilot?"  asked  William,  sensing  that 
the  man  was  deep  in  liquor. 

"Fine!  Pilot's  the  thing  I  need.  Lo's  of  rocks 
in  the  channel,  and  I've  los'  m'  chart."  Camden 
accepted  William's  arm  and  commented  upon  the 
brawn  of  it.  "You're  's  strong  's  a  hoist-boom! 
Don't  ever  hit  me,  William;  don't  you  ever  hit 
me."  At  the  companionway  he  pulled  back. 
"I'll  leave  it  to  you,  pilot.  Three  doors,  and  one 
of  'em  's  right,  but  which  is  which,  damn  me!" 

' '  I  guess  I'd  better  steer  you  down  to  your  bunk, 
my  lord.  Some  little  load.  Where'd  you  col- 
lect it?" 

4 '  Rome  and  her  seven  hills.  Got  to  go  to  China. 
Boss  wants  some  queues.  Ha,  ha !  That's  good ! 
Boss  wants  some  queues!" 

William  manceuvered  him  into  the  cabin  and 
168 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

turned  on  the  lights.  "Where'd  you  come 
from?" 

"Rome  yesterday.  Got  here 'safternoon.  Lone- 
some 's  hell!  Old  cabin  empty;  took  it.  Catch 
P.  &  O.  boat  at  Aden.  Grogan,  it  can't  be 
done,  it  can't  be  done!"  Camden  swayed  on  his 
heels  and  William  straightened  him  up.  "  Twenty 
years  I've  been  fighting  the  Demon  Rum,  and 
all  I  can  get 's  a  draw.  Game  called  on  'count  of 
darkness.  What?  I've  fought  the  Demon  all 
over  the  old  top,  and  all  I  get 's  a  draw.  Where'd 
I  come  from?  A  saloon  on  the  water-front,  where 
I  swilled  champagne  with  rough-neck  sailors. 
Fine  business,  eh?  Lot  of  drunken  sailors,  gentle- 
men of  leisure.  Well,  you've  stumblpd  on  to  the 
state  secret.  Periodical;  got  to  have  it  just  so 
often.  You're  right;  keep  away  from  it.  It 
broke  me ;  it  '11  break  any  man  in  the  end.  You're 
a  good  sort,  keep  away  from  it.  Periodical  sot." 
Without  troubling  himself  to  undress,  Camden 
flung  himself  into  the  bunk. 

The  labored  breathing  which  immediately  fol- 
lowed convinced  William  that  there  was  nothing 
more  for  him  to  do.  He  gazed  down  with  pitying 
contempt  at  the  puffed  face  which  alcohol  had 
robbed  of  everything  that  made  for  good  looks. 
He  believed  in  personal  liberty,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  had  no  sympathy  for  booze-fighters. 
And  so  this  was  Camden's  secret,  a  periodical 
boozer?  William  was  familiar  with  the  brand: 
they  kept  away  from  the  stuff  for  weeks  at  a  time, 
but  when  they  broke  loose  they  were  beasts. 

169 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

So  he  was  going  as  far  as  Aden  with  them,  en  route 
for  China?  Was  this  the  beginning  of  the  bat  or 
the  wind-up  ?  Would  the  fool  have  brains  enough 
to  keep  out  of  sight  until  he  was  sober? 

William  took  an  old  envelope  from  his  pocket 
and  tore  off  the  back.  Upon  the  clean  side  he 
scribbled :  ' '  Keep  your  cabin  until  you  sober  up. — • 
Grogan."  He  laid  this  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
put  out  the  lights,  and  went  out,  closing  the  door 
softly. 

1  'A  souse !"  he  murmured.     ' '  Pah !" 

In  his  own  cabin  the  patriarchs  were  sound 
asleep.  Carefully  he  opened  the  port,  for  the 
cabin  was  stuffy. 

"The  old  Santy  Clauses!" 

A  pair  of  clean  old  sports,  and  he  was  going  to 
miss  them  when  they  hiked  into  the  deserts  for 
their  eternal  tombs.  That  was  the  way  with 
life;  just  as  you  began  to  grow  fond  of  something 
it  died  or  went  away.  .  .  .  He  caught  his  breath 
sharply.  What  a  chance!  To  go  with  these  two 
old  boys  into  the  yellow  wildernesses,  to  play  the 
game  as  they  played  it,  to  take  his  life  in  his  palm 
for  an  idea  that  only  a  baker's  dozen  in  the  world 
would  understand!  Why  not?  What  was  there 
to  hold  him?  Why  waste  any  more  time  coddling 
a  dream  that  was  never  going  to  come  true?  It 
couldn't  come  true;  they  did  not  live  in  the  same 
worlds;  he  was  only  a  rough-neck,  even  if  he  did 
let  his  hair  grow  down  to  his  collar-band.  ...  A 
torn  photograph  and  a  chamois  bag  that  might 
hold  diamonds  and  rubies  and  pearls — the  price 

170 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

of  what?  God,  how  that  hurt!  .  .  .  To  go  away 
with  these  two  old  codgers  into  the  deserts — the 
Irish  soul  of  him  rose  to  this  thought  as  a  trout 
rises  to  the  May-fly.  But  in  through  the  port,  out 
of  the  starry  October  night,  there  seemed  to  drift 
a  plaint. 

No.  He  had  tied  a  burden  to  his  shoulders,  of 
his  own  volition,  and  he  could  not  in  honor  lay  it 
down  simply  because  his  heart  ached.  He  stared 
through  the  port.  What  was  she  thinking  of? 
What  was  she  doing?  Was  she  awake? 

Yes,  she  was  awake.  The  cabin  was  dark  save 
for  the  bar  of  light  that  came  in  obliquely  from  the 
dock  lamp.  She  was  sitting  up  in  bed.  The  bar 
of  light  fell  upon  her  lap;  and  idly  through  her 
ringers  trickled  a  stream  of  pearls.  Over  and  over 
she  gathered  them  up  and  poured  them  down, 
without,  however,  so  much  as  a  glance  at  them. 

She  could  hear  the  regular  breathing  of  the  two 
spinsters  who  shared  the  cabin  with  her.  Life! 
To  some,  great  canvases;  to  others,  slender  little 
pastels  that  one  tucked  away  in  the  corner  as 
pretty  but  innocuous.  Had  these  withered  little 
old  sisters  ever  been  stirred,  quickened,  tempted? 
Had  anything  ever  happened  (aside  from  this 
wonderful  voyage)  beyond  their  garden  gate? 

By  and  by  she  put  the  pearls  back  into  the  cha- 
mois bag,  tied  the  strings  about  her  neck,  and  lay 
back,  her  eyes  still  open. 

Camden  stirred  uneasily  as  the  sunshine  blazed 
into  the  port.  He  licked  his  parched  lips  several 

171 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

times  with  a  tongue  which  was  moistureless,  then 
he  opened  his  puffed  eyelids,  only  to  close  them 
quickly.  The  light  was  like  a  blow.  How  his 
brain  throbbed!  The  damnable  thirst!  He  sat 
up,  reached  for  the  water-bottle,  and  gulped  deep 
draughts  of  the  lukewarm  water.  He  fell  back 
weakly,  a  fit  of  vertigo  seizing  him.  .  .  .  Still 
dressed,  he  sat  up  again  and  pulled  out  his 
watch.  He  had  to  close  one  eye  to  see  the  time. 
Ten  o'clock;  that  would  be  three  hours  out  of 
Brindisi. 

He  rested  his  head  upon  his  knees  and  tried  to 
think.  How  had  he  reached  the  cabin?  Had 
some  steward  helped  him  down?  He  unbuttoned 
his  vest  and  explored  the  inside  pocket.  It  was 
empty.  He  lay  back  for  the  second  time,  ex- 
hausted. Feebly  he  pressed  the  electric  button. 
"Tea  and  toast  for  a  pick-me-up."  He  drank  the 
tea  greedily,  but  his  gorge  rose  at  the  sight  of  the 
golden  toast.  If  only  he  could  pile  into  a  hot  salt 
tub! 

"Steward,  a  hot  salt  bath;  and  when  the  tub  is 
ready,  come  back  and  help  me  to  it." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Slowly  and  painfully  Camden  got  out  of  the 
berth  and  stood  up.  Swaying  and  balancing 
himself,  he  took  off  his  coat  and  vest  and  flung 
them  upon  the  lounge.  Next  he  took  inventory 
of  his  pockets.  Four  louis,  a  twenty-lire  piece  and 
some  small  silver — all  that  was  left  of  two  hundred 
pounds. 

"Damned  fool!" 

172 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Two  hundred  pounds  in  three  days,  on  riffraff 
he  did  not  know,  hangers-on  at  American  bars, 
hotel  gamblers,  sailors'  dives.  God !  hadn't  he  one 
shred  of  dignity  left  ?  Always  the  latest  bout  car- 
ried him  into  lower  company,  fouler  haunts.  All 
his  good  resolutions  gone  to  pot ! 

The  supreme  agony  came  when  he  stooped  over 
his  shoes ;  and  then  he  knew  that  this  carouse  was 
at  an  end.  He  noticed,  as  the  second  shoe  came  off, 
that  the  hem  of  the  trousers  leg  was  rolled  up. 
He  unrolled  it,  and  a  slip  of  white  paper  fluttered 
to  the  floor.  He  recovered  it.  It  was  a  hundred- 
pound  note.  He  laughed  weakly.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  then,  he  had  shown  caution  in  his 
cups! 

He  was  pulling  on  his  bath-robe  when  he  saw  the 
torn  envelope.  His  first  impression  was  that  he 
had  discovered  more  money,  something  that  had 
fallen  out  of  his  pocket  the  night  before.  It  was 
merely  William's  contribution:  "Keep  your  cabin 
until  you  sober  up. — Grogan." 

Grogan?  Camden  slowly  made  a  ball  of  the 
note  and  threw  it  out  the  port.  Grogan  ? — so  the 
Irishman  had  piloted  him  down  to  the  cabin? 
Camden  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk  and 
stared  at  the  carpet.  In  this  position  the  steward 
found  him. 

"Your  bath  is  ready,  sir." 

"Thank  God  for  that!" 

William  did  not  see  Camden  again  until  the 
Ajax  dropped  anchor  in  the  basin  at  Piraeus.  In 
Athens  the  man  turned  up  perfectly  normal  except 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

for  a  pallor  which  added  to  his  manner  a  touch 
of  scholarly  meditation.  Such  recuperation  was  a 
clear  sign  to  William  that  Camden's  constitution 
was  a  tough  one.  Camden  totally  ignored  the 
episode. 

In  Constantinople  he  put  up  at  the  Para  Palace; 
and  as  this  hotel  was  not  included  in  Mr.  Cook's 
itinerary,  William  saw  little  or  nothing  of  him. 
William  did  not  miss  him  to  any  considerable 
extent;  yet,  Camden  was  likable.  He  had  been 
everywhere  and  seen  everything,  and  he  had  im- 
parted to  William  many  a  serviceable  bit  of  in- 
formation. There  was  only  a  grain  or  two  of 
William's  original  dislike.  The  majority  of  these 
grains  had  been  swept  aside  by  Camden's  apparent 
indifference  to  Ruth's  charms. 

The  tourists  remained  four  days  in  the  city  of 
pariah  dogs;  and  William  was  more  interested 
in  the  habits  of  these  homeless  animals  than  in  all 
the  mosques  lumped  together.  The  way  the 
brutes  had  divided  up  the  city  among  themselves 
was  a  whole  volume  on  local  politics. 

On  the  night  of  the  fourth  day  William  decided 
to  tempt  fate  once  more.  He  wanted  to  prove  to 
himself  that  the  assaults  in  Italy  had  been  acts 
of  the  Black-Handers  advised  from  New  York. 
Since  Florence  there  had  been  no  demonstration. 
If  he  could  prowl  about  Constantinople  at  night 
without  molestation,  it  would  confirm  his  sus- 
picions that  outside  of  Italy  he  was  immune. 

He  prowled  through  the  city  until  after  mid- 
night, and  nothing  happened  more  serious  than 

174 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

sundry  snaps  and  curses  from  sleeping  dogs  and 
beggars.  He  had  dropped  his  enemies  down  the 
horizon — a  very  comfortable  feeling.  In  Smyrna 
he  visited  the  dance-halls  along  the  water-front. 
This,  too,  was  barren  of  results,  if  you  excepted 
an  altercation  over  the  price  of  the  syrupy  coffee. 
He  was  able  to  smooth  out  this  difficulty  by  adopt- 
ing the  oldest-known  method — he  paid  ten  times 
too  much. 

It  was  in  dusty,  topas-tinted  Cairo  that  he  found 
the  world  he  had  been  longing  for,  the  world  which 
had  irresistibly  drawn  him  out  of  the  humdrum  of 
drains  and  catch-basins.  It  was  this  strange, 
smelly,  colorful  Orient  that  his  warm  Irish  soul  was 
going  to  revel  in,  to  memorize  in  detail. 

The  marvels  of  antiquity  in  Italy  and  Greece 
had  scarcely  scratched  his  soul,  though  he  had  not 
been  impervious  to  the  geographical  beauties 
of  these  two  countries.  Besides,  he  knew  Italians, 
Greeks,  Bulgarians,  Turks,  and  Russians.  Burns, 
Dolan  &  Co.  stood  in  the  center  of  their 
bakeries,  their  shoe-shining  parlors,  their  curio- 
shops,  their  tonsorial  palaces,  their  candy  and 
fruit  stands;  types  so  familiar  that  he  had  long 
ceased  to  pay  any  attention  to  them.  But  now 
he  stood  upon  the  enchanted  shores  of  Aladdin's 
country  (or  near  it).  William  had  read  an  in- 
nocuous translation  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  he 
would  not  have  been  astonished  to  see  the  djinn  pop 
out  of  soda-bottles.  The  splendid  bronze  men  of 
North  Africa,  with  their  brown,  drab,  yellow,  and 
blue  burnooses,  their  brown  and  white  and  green 

175 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

turbans;  their  thrilling  kettledrums  and  reeds, 
their  donkeys,  their  trains  of  pack-camels,  their 
indescribably  bewildering  bazaars — his  interest  in 
these  pictures  was  ecstatic. 

He  was  one  of  the  many  millions  who  accept  life 
as  a  series  of  pictures,  impressionable  most  to  those 
which  do  not  conform  with  every-day  routine. 
I  repeat,  what  he  knew  of  life  had  been  hammered 
into  him  cruelly  and  unforgetably.  To  digress 
for  a  moment,  Burke  was  Burns's  favorite  author. 
Over  the  office  desk  was  a  printed  card.  William 
could  not  remember  it  literally,  but  he  had  the 
basic  truth  of  it.  To  quote  William  in  preference 
to  Burke :  ' '  Learning  is  a  painful  job ;  a  whole  lot 
of  pains  rammed  into  your  coco  whether  you 
wanted  'em  or  not;  and  the  more  pains  you  could 
stand  up  under  without  throwing  up  the  sponge, 
the  bigger  the  know;  and  you  could  enjoy  learning 
only  when  you'd  digested  these  pains.  I  guess  my 
brain,  like  my  stomach,  is  built  on  the  corned- 
beef  -and-cabbage  plan." 

Therefore,  his  mental  attitude  was  inclined  tow- 
ard such  pictures  as  he  saw  in  Cairo.  When  he 
read  a  book  he  took  the  story  and  stored  it  away; 
the  useful  or  practical  information  made  a  neg- 
ligible impression  and  was  rarely  serviceable. 
When  he  was  somewhere  around  fifty  his  educa- 
tion would  be  complete — that  is,  he  would  possess 
an  unlimited  number  of  pictures,  some  of  them 
badly  done,  some  of  them  in  outrageous  perspec- 
tive, and  some  of  them  so  indistinct  that  he  would 
remember  them  only  as  old  masters. 

176 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

But  he  knew  how  to  love,  which  is  my  warranty 
for  telling  his  story. 

At  Assuan  he  lost  his  two  old  archeologists.  It 
was  the  first  heart-tug  he  had  known  since  his 
youth.  There  was  something  in  his  soul  that  went 
out  to  those  old  graybeards,  something  com- 
municable but  inexpressible,  which  his  friends 
recognized  in  his  hand-shakes  and  his  blundering, 
lingering  farewells. 

"Sister,  I  hate  to  see  those  old  geezers  go.  We 
rowed  the  first  two  or  three  nights,  and  I  used  to 
make  fun  of  them;  but  after  Gibraltar  I  got  to 
loving  them.  Kind  of  funny,  huh?  An  ignorant 
boob  like  me  cottoning  to  a  couple  of  book-sharks 
like  those  two.  Search  me  why.  Think  of  'em 
starting  out  to-night,  with  half  a  dozen  camels  and 
a  couple  of  umbrellas!  I  wish  I'd  had  the  right 
kind  of  start.  I'd  have  gone  with  'em,  sure.  And 
in  three  or  four  months  little  Willie  Grogan  will 
be  back  in  his  cellar.  .  .  .  No!  What  do  you 
know  about  that?  I'd  forgotten  all  about  my 
being  a  partner  in  Burns,  Dolan  &  Co.'s !  But  that 
was  only  Irish  luck." 

"Who  was  Praxiteles?"  Ruth  interrupted,  whim- 
sically. 

"He  was  the  Greek  bootblack  across  the  street 
from  the  shop.  Aw!  You  know  I'm  not  good  at 
remembering  those  guys.  I've  enough  names  in 
my  head  to  start  a  city  directory,  and  all  blamed 
strangers." 

' '  I  was  only  in  fun.  What  do  you  care  ?  You're 
learning  something  fine  and  splendid  every  day. 

177 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

It's  only  the  pedant  who  could  remember  all  those 
names  and  what  they  meant.  Some  day  you're 
going  to  be  all  there  is  of  the  firm  Burns,  Dolan  & 
Co.;  and  what's  knowing  Praxiteles  compared  to 
that  ?  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  God  has  given 
you  something  which  He  gives  to  few  scholars?" 

"What's  that?"  eagerly. 

"Some  day  I'll  tell  you." 

"Eventually — why  not  now,  as  the  advertise- 
ment says?" 

"No."  She  spoke  seriously  and  decidedly,  for 
the  reason  that  she  herself  did  not  know  exactly 
what  she  meant. 

"All  right.  So  long  's  it's  good  it  '11  keep.  But 
say,"  he  added,  with  diffidence,  "I  forgot  to  tell 
you.  You  know  that  busy  missioner  who's  always 
making  himself  chairman  of  the  Doc  Gloom  Asso- 
ciation when  anybody  starts  a  laugh? — the  one 
that's  going  to  Calcutta?  Well,  he  had  the  nerve 
.  .  .  You  see,  you  and  I've  been  going  around  to- 
gether a  good  deal." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Well,  he  asked  me  when  we  were  going  to  get 
married,  and  I  told  him  when  I  could  patent  a 
mouth-organ  as  good  as  his." 

"You  told  him  that?" 

"  Ye-ah.  Of  course  I  could  have  told  him  to  go 
to  hell,"  William  added,  gravely. 

"You  mustn't  talk  like  that — you  mustn't." 

"I  know  it;  so  I  didn't.  But  I  thought  I'd  tell 
you,  so  if  he  speaks  to  you  you  can  hand  him  a  line 
of  talk  that  11  curl  his  Horace  Greeley  for  him." 

178 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"You  must  learn  to  laugh  such  things  away. 
But  don't  let  that  bother  you.  No  silly  thing  like 
that  shall  spoil  our  friendship.  Mercy!  it's  ten 
o'clock!  time  for  me  to  go  to  bed.  To-morrow  we 
sail  down  the  Nile.  Isn't  it  wonderful!  Good 
night." 

William  went  into  the  garden  for  a  cigar.  His 
school-teacher  could  be  very  abrupt  at  times.  He 
looked  up  at  the  sky  and  down  at  the  river.  The 
night  was  inexpressibly  beautiful,  but  William's 
imagination  took  a  mournful  turn.  Somewhere 
over  there  the  two  old  codgers  were  hiking  along, 
arguing,  that  is,  if  they  weren't  asleep.  He  had 
heard  vague  rumors  of  men  sleeping  on  the  backs 
of  camels,  but  be  doubted  it ;  and  he  had  excellent 
reasons  for  doubting  it.  Hadn't  he  ridden  a  camel 
out  to  Memphis  and  back  and  discovered  a  new  set 
of  muscles  that  clamored  poignantly  for  recogni- 
tion? 

And  this  was  the  same  little  old  creek  where 
they  had  planted  Moses  in  the  bulrushes !  Lately 
he  understood  why  the  Decalogue  had  been  given 
to  humanity.  Nobody  could  live  in  Egypt  with- 
out it,  not  if  he  went  tagging  around  after  a  drago- 
man. 

And  it  was  strange  that  that  old  moon  should  be 
working  with  this  old  river  long  after  the  mold  of 
ten  thousand  years  lay  upon  his  bones.  What  a 
speck  he  was ! 

"No  silly  thing  like  that  shall  spoil  our  friend- 
ship." 

Well,  after  all,  what  more  could  he  ask ?  Hadn't 
179 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

he  put  aside  forever  that  magnificent  but  foolish 
dream  ?  In  this  life  the  sensible  person  was  he  who, 
when  he  could  not  get  what  he  wanted,  took  what 
was  offered  and  made  the  most  of  it.  Friendship  ? 
If  only  dreams  had  substance,  and  you  could  bury 
them  and  feel  certain  that  they  would  stay  buried ! 

When  and  where  would  he  see  that  sleek  yacht 
again? 

Upon  his  return  to  Cairo  William  found  a  draft 
from  Burns  and  a  letter  bristling  with  questions 
and  warnings.  Another  letter  informed  him  that 
his  stolen  letter  of  credit  had  not  yet  been  offered 
anywhere,  and  that  a  new  one  would  be  issued  not 
later  than  November  loth  and  forwarded  to  any 
city  he  should  designate.  Upon  the  advice  of  the 
agent  at  Cook's  he  directed  the  bankers  to  forward 
the  new  letter  to  Rangoon.  A  hundred  pounds 
ought  easily  to  carry  him  to  that  city.  This  im- 
portant business  off  his  mind,  he  proceeded  to  en- 
joy himself  with  a  thoroughness  which  generally 
left  the  girl  breathless.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he 
did  not  know  what  fatigue  was. 

He  ran  amuck  in  the  amber  bazaars,  purchasing 
amber  beads,  cigar-holders,  and  pipe-stems  in 
bulk.  He  explained  that  he  was  going  to  give  the 
beads  to  the  little  typewriter  in  the  office,  to  Mrs. 
Burns,  and  to  his  landlady,  and  the  smokers' 
articles  to  the  boys  in  the  shop  and  over  at  the 
engine-house. 

He  had  picked  up  one  phrase  in  Arabic:  Ma 
andishfulus  means  "I  have  no  money."  He  sang 
it  in  tenor,  barytone,  and  bass.  If  an  Arab  politely 

180 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

said, ' '  Salaam !"  William  would  hurl  his  phrase  into 
his  teeth  and  pass  on.  Many  reviled  him  for  a  dog 
of  a  giaour,  but  he  brushed  aside  the  curses  as  he 
brushed  aside  the  flies,  which  was  ceaselessly  dur- 
ing the  day.  Unwisely,  he  had  begun  the  first 
day  in  Cairo  by  giving  alms.  About  three  hun- 
dred beggars  from  the  tombs  of  the  califs  now 
loitered  on  the  curb  opposite  his  hotel,  and 
they  loved  him  as  the  ladies  in  "Olivette  "  loved  the 
whale. 

The  night  previous  to  the  departure  for  Port 
Said,  where  they  were  to  go  aboard  the  Ajax, 
Camden  invited  William  to  go  to  the  Theatre  des 
Nouveautes,  where  three  or  four  good  boxing- 
bouts  were  to  be  held.  William  threw  up  his  hat. 
After  ten  thousand  painted  saints,  and  as  many 
cathedrals  and  tombs,  this  prospective  entertain- 
ment was  manna  in  the  desert. 

But,  with  the  exception  of  five  sovereigns  to 
meet  the  expenses  of  the  evening,  he  wisely  turned 
over  his  money  to  Ruth ;  and,  ironical  as  it  may 
seem,  this  very  caution  was  the  cause  of  his 
downfall. 

"Don't  go  prowling  around  after  your  boxing- 
match  is  over,"  she  advised.  "This  is  the  last 
night,  and  if  anything  happened  to  you  you  would 
miss  the  boat." 

"I'll  never  miss  it,  sister;  take  it  from  me." 

Camden  announced,  as  they  entered  the  theater, 
that  after  the  bouts  William  would  have  to  shift 
for  himself.  "I'm  off  for  a  rubber  or  two  of 
bridge  at  Shepheard's;  so  you'll  have  to  guide 

181 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

yourself  back  to  the  hotel.  And  remember  the 
boat." 

"I  know  the  way,"  replied  William. 

William  knew  the  return  route  to  his  hotel.  But 
he  who  hesitates  is  lost,  and  on  the  way  back  Wil- 
liam hesitated  against  his  better  judgment. 

A  man  had  followed  him  from  the  theater,  and 
when  William  became  detached  from  the  crowd, 
the  man  approached  him  secretly. 

"Would  the  American  gentleman  like  to  see  the 
celebrated  Cairene  dancers?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  William. 

"Ah,  but  you  do  not  see  Cairo  if  you  miss  these 
dancers.  If  you  have  not  been  to  Madame  Rene's, 
you  have  not  seen  Cairo,  sir." 

William,  recalling  the  twenty-one  nationalities 
in  the  dance-halls  of  Smyrna's  water-front,  paused. 
Had  he  been  carrying  a  large  sum  of  money  he 
would  have  gone  on  instantly.  It  was  a  question- 
able exploit;  but,  then,  he  was  no  prude.  He 
recalled  that  only  this  very  night  Camden  had 
spoken  in  regret  of  his  inability  to  see  some  of  the 
Cairene  dancers  this  trip.  William  was  out  to  see 
the  world,  and  a  Cairene  dance-hall  might  as  well 
take  its  place  on  the  program  in  exchange  for  some 
future  tomb  or  ruin. 

"Lay  on,  Macduff;  but  I  tell  you  what,  if  these 
dancers  aren't  up  to  the  mark,  I'll  sic  Thomas 
Cook  on  to  you." 

He  was  not  very  much  impressed  by  the  scene 
at  madame's.  It  was  sordid,  and  William  did  not 
like  sordid  pictures.  The  dancing  girls  were  even 

182 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

less  graceful  than  those  ladies  in  Naples  who 
danced  the  tarantella  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  the 
hotels.  Sold!  He  was  certain  at  last  that  the 
skilled  barkers  at  the  side-shows  home  had  been 
born  and  reared  in  this  part  of  the  world.  He  kept 
his  eyes  open,  bought  a  bottle  of  cheap  wine,  but 
declined  to  drink  it  or  touch  the  pasties  laid  out 
before  him.  When  he  looked  around  presently 
and  found  his  guide  absent,  he  got  up. 

Madame  regretted  that  he  was  not  amused. 
Nobody  made  the  least  attempt  to  stay  him. 
Indeed,  the  dancers  at  once  lost  interest  in  him. 
They  invariably  lost  interest  in  men  who  bought 
one  bottle  of  wine  and  no  more. 

To  reach  Madame  Rene's  door  you  had  to  pass 
down  a  dark  alley  whose  single  illumination  came 
from  a  wall-lamp  at  the  corner.     It  was  in  this 
alley  that  William  was  struck  down. 
13 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  unmarried  woman  must  have  something 
to  satisfy  her  instincts  of  motherhood;  thus 
we  find  the  spinster  coddling  the  cat  or  cooing  to 
the  canary.  A  single  man  has  so  many  diversions 
that  he  need  be  lonely  only  during  his  meals,  and 
not  always  then.  He  has  no  mother  instincts; 
he  cannot  boast  of  father  instincts  before  the  fact. 

Ruth,  having  finished  her  breakfast  of  toast  and 
chocolate,  sat  cross-legged  among  the  tumbled  bed- 
clothes and  analyzed  an  astonishing  discovery. 
She  had  found  an  outlet  to  the  mother  instinct  by 
establishing  a  protectorate  over  William  Grogan. 
Since  the  death  of  her  father  she  had  been  without 
any  practical  objective  in  life.  She  loved  children, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  mother  the  wild  little 
animals  under  her  tutelage.  She  never  could  get 
very  close  to  them  sentimentally,  for  the  reason 
that  teachers  are  looked  upon  by  pupils  as  natural 
enemies.  If  some  little  girl  made  her  the  gift  of 
a  bouquet  or  some  little  boy  left  an  apple  on  her 
desk,  she  readily  understood  the  impulse  behind 
the  act — a  plea  for  immunity  from  punishment  the 
next  time  punishment  was  due.  But  to  get  them 
snuggling  in  her  arms  was  nigh  impossible. 

The  majority  of  them  had  all  the  mothering 
184 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

they  wanted  at  home.  They  could  put  up  with  it 
there  because  they  had  to;  but  at  school  they  con- 
sidered any  such  advances  as  an  encroachment 
upon  their  prerogatives.  True,  they  would  come 
running  to  her  fast  enough  when  they  were  hurt; 
but  this  was  in  quest  of  justice  or  sympathy,  and 
teachers  were  the  only  grown-ups  at  hand. 

So  she  awoke  with  the  discovery  that  for  several 
weeks,  in  fact  since  the  landing  at  Naples,  she  had 
been  mothering  William  Grogan,  rescuing  him 
from  greedy  shopkeepers,  suppressing  his  careless 
generosity  in  the  matter  of  tips,  seeing  to  it  that  he 
never  left  anything  on  trains,  warning  him  against 
sea-food  in  inland  towns,  teaching  him  by  degrees 
what  she  knew  of  art  and  literature  despite  the 
fact  that  most  of  it  went  into  one  ear  and  out  of  the 
other. 

Ruth  gathered  up  her  brush  and  comb  from  the 
little  stand  at  the  side  of  the  bed  and  began  brush- 
ing and  combing  her  hair,  which  was  golden-brown 
like  the  nest  of  a  ripe  chestnut.  Her  skin  was  fine 
and  firmly  padded,  with  a  hint  of  gold  in  the  soft, 
curving  shadows.  Her  cambric  night-gown,  short 
in  sleeve  and  loose  at  the  shoulders,  revealed 
vaguely  the  lovely  contours  of  her  young  body. 
But  as  in  William,  her  chief  attraction  lay  in  her 
eyes,  deep  gray,  flecked  with  the  variegated  browns 
of  an  October  leaf. 

Mothering  William  Grogan  with  his  shock  of  red 
hair,  his  amazing  blue  eyes,  his  irrepressible  good 
humor,  his  irresponsible  generosity!  She  laughed 
and  rocked  her  body.  It  was  so  funny.  Argu- 

185 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

ing  with  him  what  he  should  and  should  not 
spend,  ordering  him  to  do  this  or  that,  certain 
that  he  would  always  obey  her,  which  he  always 
did.  Accustomed  as  she  was  to  ruling  children, 
it  fell  to  her  easily  to  dominate  this  Hercules 
who  was  only  a  child  grown  up.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  her  to  peer  behind  the  curtain  of  this  ap- 
parent docility.  Besides,  the  experience  had  all 
the  thrilling  exhilaration  of  stroking  a  purring 
tiger;  for  while  she  might  in  time  completely  forget 
that  morning  in  Venice,  she  would  never  forget 
the  cold,  murderous  fire  in  William's  eyes. 

Eight  o'clock!  She  sprang  off  the  bed,  lively 
and  eager.  They  would  be  leaving  for  Port  Said 
at  nine-thirty,  and  she  hadn't  a  bit  of  packing 
done.  She  ran  to  the  window — sunshine,  always 
sunshine.  What  a  wonderful  world  it  was!  She 
began  humming  the  spinning-song  from  "The 
Flying  Dutchman,"  and  turned  to  her  suit-cases. 
It  was  an  actual  fact  that  these  cases  were 
visibly  shrinking  or  else  her  clothes  were  growing. 
Soon  she  would  be  forced  to  buy  a  third  case. 

When  everything  was  snugly  packed  away  and 
not  so  much  as  a  hairpin  forgotten,  she  picked  up 
William's  little  bag  of  gold  and  dropped  it  into 
the  pocket  of  her  skirt,  pinning  the  aperture.  Not 
only  his  mother,  but  his  banker,  too !  She  laughed. 
The  bag  was  heavy  and  clumsy,  but,  once  aboard, 
she  could  turn  it  over  to  William  or  the  purser. 

At  eight-thirty  she  was  in  the  lobby,  searching 
for  William.  He  was  nowhere  in  sight,  and  she 
considered  this  rather  unusual.  So  she  found  a 

186 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

chair  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  and  sat  down 
to  wait.  Her  fellow- tourists  began  to  depart  in 
groups.  Ten  minutes  to  nine  she  became  worried. 
Not  belonging  to  that  class  of  women  who  cannot 
do  anything  but  wait,  she  went  to  the  desk  to  learn 
if  William  had  left  word.  He  had  not. 

"Perhaps  he  has  overslept,"  she  suggested. 

The  clerk  looked  over  the  key-rack.  "Here  is 
his  key,  miss." 

She  thought  for  a  moment.  "It  might  be  well 
to  send  some  one  up,  at  least  to  see  if  his  luggage 
has  been  brought  down.  It  is  getting  late." 

"Very  well,  miss." 

Five  minutes  later  Ruth  was  informed  that  Mr. 
Grogan  had  not  been  in  his  room.  His  clothes  lay 
about ;  nothing  had  been  packed.  Ruth  was  now 
alarmed. 

"Give  me  the  key  and  summon  a  maid  for  me," 
she  said,  resolutely.  She  did  not  care  what  people 
said. 

She  and  the  maid  packed  William's  grips  and 
carried  them  down-stairs.  It  was  now  ten  minutes 
past  nine.  She  could  wait  five  minutes  longer. 
What  had  happened?  It  was  certain  that  he  had 
not  returned  to  the  hotel  last  night.  Promptness 
was  one  of  William's  virtues.  Never  before  had 
she  missed  him  in  the  morning.  A  dread  thought, 
thrust  it  aside  as  she  might,  persisted.  It  did  not 
matter  that  he  was  very  strong,  quick,  and  re- 
sourceful. Each  time  she  shut  her  eyes  she  saw  a 
man  stealing  treacherously  up  behind  him. 

At  nine-fifteen  she  was  forced  to  go  to  her  car- 
187 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

riage.  She  dared  not  wait  any  longer.  There 
was  a  possible  chance  of  his  arriving  at  the  sta- 
tion the  last  moment.  But  there  was  no  William 
Grogan  on  the  train  that  left  for  Port  Said  that 
morning. 

Her  luggage  and  William's  were  stacked  to- 
gether in  the  corridor;  and  the  Calcutta  missioner 
eyed  the  pyramid  gloomily  as  he  passed  the  com- 
partment. 

Ruth  imagined  all  sorts  of  calamities.  William 
had  been  run  over.  He  had  been  set  upon  and 
robbed.  He  was  lying  in  a  hospital,  and  was  badly 
hurt,  unable  to  tell  who  he  was.  And  he  might  be 
dead.  She  kept  up  pluckily  under  the  strain. 
For  five  and  a  half  hours  she  sat  in  her  corner 
stiffly,  paying  no  heed  to  the  calls  for  luncheon, 
not  daring  to  close  her  eyes  for  fear  of  the  pictures 
she  would  see  behind  the  lids,  replying  absently  to 
such  questions  as  were  put  to  her  by  the  other 
ladies.  What  really  gave  her  this  fictitious 
strength  was  the  hope  that  at  Port  Said  there 
would  be  a  telegram. 

He  was  so  strong  that  his  strength  would  prob- 
ably react  against  him.  His  assailants  would  be 
forced  to  beat  him  cruelly  in  order  to  plunder  him 
safely.  He  had  promised  to  return  to  the  hotel 
immediately  after  the  boxing-match,  and  no  doubt 
the  old  craving  to  prowl  had  been  his  undoing. 

She  wished  now  that  she  had  remained  in  Cairo. 
She  could  have  searched  the  hospitals,  notified  the 
police  and  the  consul.  Moreover,  she  could  have 
taken  a  late  train  to  Suez  and  joined  the  Ajax 

188 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

there.  An  explanatory  telegram  would  have  held 
up  the  ship  for  an  hour  or  so. 

At  Port  Said  there  was  no  telegram  awaiting 
Ruth. 

Camden  was  one  of  the  last  to  come  on  board. 
Ruth  rushed  up  to  him. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Grogan?" 

' '  Grogan  ?    Why,  isn't  he  on  board  ?" 

"No.  He  didn't  come  back  to  the  hotel  last 
night." 

4 '  Good  lord !  Why,  I  left  him  at  the  door  of  the 
theater.  Only  a  few  turns,  and  he  was  at  his  hotel. 
But  I  shouldn't  worry,  Miss  Jones."  For  Ruth 
was  still  "Miss  Jones"  to  every  one  but  William. 
"I  say,  I'll  run  down  and  send  some  wires,  one  to 
the  police  and  one  to  the  hotel.  He  may  not 
think  to  take  the  night  express  to  Suez." 

"I'll  be  very  grateful  to  you.  I'm  dreadfully 
worried.  He  hasn't  the  least  idea  what  caution 
is." 

"We've  half  an  hour.  I'll  bring  you  the  re- 
ceipts for  the  telegrams."  Camden  made  off. 

When  the  Ajax  began  her  slow  voyage  down  the 
narrow  canal,  Ruth  stood  watch  until  Port  Said 
became  an  indistinct  blur  to  the  north.  At  mid- 
night she  saw  the  lights  of  Ismailia  approach  and 
pass.  The  captain,  having  been  apprised  of  the 
situation,  watched  for  a  signal  "passenger  to 
board";  but  none  came.  It  was  then  Ruth  went 
below,  but  not  to  sleep,  merely  to  rest  her  weary 
body. 

At  dawn  the  slithering  of  the  anchor  chains 
189 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

startled  her  from  a  doze.  She  hastily  put  on  her 
kimono  and  went  on  deck.  Suez  lay  off  to  star- 
board. The  harbor  lights  were  still  shining, 
though  they  grew  perceptibly  dimmer  and  dimmer 
as  the  yellow  pallor  of  dawn  changed  swiftly  into 
bright  gold.  A  string  of  coal-lighters  were  swing- 
ing around  to  port,  and  hundreds  of  Arabs  swarmed 
over  the  dull  black  heaps  of  coal.  There  was  in 
the  air  the  promise  of  a  very  hot  day. 

The  Ajax  had  dropped  her  anchor  just  outside 
the  basin  of  Port  Ibrahim.  In  the  basin  itself  was 
a  forest  of  masts  and  funnels;  and  from  out  the 
spaces  between  these  hulls  came  dozens  of  small 
boats  laden  with  fruit.  Ruth  strained  her  eyes  in 
vain  to  discover  a  familiar  head.  What  with  the 
pall  of  coal-dust,  the  sharpening  yellow  haze,  and 
the  many  heads  dully  red  from  the  stains  of  henna, 
William's  aureola  would  not  have  shone  with  any 
degree  of  conspicuity. 

All  hope  died  within  her.  If  he  was  not  dead 
he  had  at  least  passed  out  of  her  life  for  many 
months,  if  not  forever.  She  bent  her  forehead  to 
the  teak  rail,  cool  with  dew.  If  she  did  not  weep 
it  was  because  her  eyes  were  too  dry  for  tears. 

One  of  her  hands  lay  inertly  on  the  rail.  Down 
upon  this  hand  suddenly  fell  another,  big  and 
warm  and  firm.  It  was  dirty,  variously  scratched, 
and  streaked  with  blood.  She  looked  up  swiftly. 
The  object  of  her  fascinated  gaze  was  literally  in 
tatters.  His  collar  was  gone,  likewise  his  hat. 
There  was  a  hideous  bump  over  the  left  ear,  and 
all  the  way  down  the  side  of  the  head  and  neck 

190 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

was  a  broad  streak  of  coagulated  blood  and  coal- 
dust.  The  face  was  as  black  as  a  stoker's.  Out 
of  this  murk  appeared  two  rows  of  white  teeth. 
She  would  have  known  that  grin  anywhere. 

"William  Grogan!"  she  gasped. 

"Ye-ah;  what's  left,"  jauntily. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WILLIAM  never  saw  the  hand  that  struck  him 
down.  Whether  he  had  one  or  ten  assailants 
was  likewise  to  remain  in  the  limbo  of  mysteries. 
He  always  recollected  this  adventure  with  the 
keenest  regret.  To  sink  down  under  the  ava- 
lanche, fighting  to  the  last  moment,  accounting 
for  two  or  three  among  the  many,  was  never  con- 
sidered a  disgrace  by  any  Irishman  William  knew. 
He  was  proud  of  his  strength,  and  to  pass  into 
the  land  of  coma  without  being  permitted  to 
exercise  the  functions  of  his  hands  and  feet  was 
galling  to  the  memory. 

As  he  left  Madame  Rene's  dance-hall,  so  far  as 
he  could  see  the  alley  was  deserted  except  for 
himself.  Still,  there  were  a  dozen  black  doorways 
behind  him  and  beyond.  The  last  thing  he  re- 
membered, he  had  taken  out  his  old  silver  watch, 
not  with  any  idea  of  ascertaining  the  time,  but 
rather  in  surrender  to  that  mechanical  impulse 
common  enough  in  men — when  in  doubt,  look  at 
your  watch.  Right  there  the  top  of  heaven  fell 
out. 

Hours  must  have  passed  before  he  finally  opened 
his  eyes  and  sensed  realities.  The  blow  had  been 
brutal,  and  doubtless  would  have  permanently 

192 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

cracked  a  skull  less  solid.  His  initial  impression 
was  a  curious  one;  he  was  nothing  more  than  an 
enormous  head,  and  all  the  aches  known  were 
fighting  there  for  individual  supremacy.  His 
second  impression  was  that  he  was  sailing  along  at 
the  tail  of  a  comet,  for  no  matter  which  way  he 
looked  he  saw  nothing  but  showers  of  sparks.  It 
was  when  he  felt  a  touch  of  nausea,  thousands  of 
miles  away,  that  he  knew  for  a  certainty  that  his 
body  was  still  attached  to  his  neck.  He  attempted 
to  reach  up  a  hand  to  this  freak  head,  only  to  learn 
that  he  was  bound  up  as  snugly  as  an  Italian  baby 
in  the  winter. 

Too  weak  to  struggle,  he  relaxed  and  lay  back 
like  a  sensible  but  badly  punished  boxer  between 
rounds.  In  time  the  vertigo  passed  away  and 
slowly  his  body  became  normal.  But  he  wisely 
allowed  an  hour  or  more  to  slip  by  before  he  began 
a  serious  attempt  to  free  himself. 

The  damp,  musty  odor  was  familiar.  He  was 
in  some  kind  of  a  cellar.  A  long  distance  away 
he  was  presently  able  to  distinguish  a  square 
of  dark  blue  in  the  jet  black.  It  was  a  window. 
He  was  sitting  with  his  back  to  a  post  of  stone; 
he  could  feel  the  chill  of  it  against  his  spine. 
And  the  damp  of  the  clay  floor  penetrated  his 
legs  and  thighs. 

What  time  was  it?  Was  it  still  midnight  or 
was  it  well  on  toward  morning?  Before  he  wasted 
what  little  strength  he  had,  he  decided  to  wait 
for  light.  After  what  seemed  hours  and  hours,  the 
square  of  blue  lightened  and  the  velvet  blackness 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

took  on  a  deep,  foggy  gray.     Morning  was  ap- 
proaching. 

He  now  began  to  struggle.  He  would  swell  his 
muscles,  then  relax  them  suddenly,  recalling  the 
skill  in  this  direction  of  a  prestidigitator  he  had 
once  seen  at  the  vaudeville.  By  the  time  the 
outside  world  had  turned  yellow  he  had  gained  an 
inch  or  so  at  the  wrists ;  but,  in  opposition  to  this, 
the  rope  had  tightened  around  his  elbows.  This 
phenomenon  convinced  him  that  he  was  trussed  up 
in  a  single  coil  of  rope  several  yards  long.  Some- 
where, then,  there  ought  to  be  a  weak  spot.  He 
rested  his  arms  and  began  wriggling  his  feet. 

He  had  lost  considerable  blood.  His  left  shoul- 
der was  damp  and  soggy  with  it,  and  whenever  he 
moved  his  head  his  neck  burned  and  the  hair 
pulled.  He  was  grateful  for  one  thing — they  had 
not  gagged  him;  he  could  get  plenty  of  air  into 
his  lungs.  But  this  fact  added  a  new  worry  to 
those  already  accumulated — his  captors  did  not 
care  whether  he  yelled  for  help  or  not.  He  was 
dreadfully  thirsty.  He  would  have  exchanged  all 
his  sovereigns  for  a  dipper  of  cold  water. 

The  four  walls  of  the  cellar  began  to  take  form, 
to  stand  out  distinctly,  and  he  could  see  about. 
What  he  saw  troubled  him.  He  was  an  old  hand 
in  the  psychology  of  cellars.  This  was  under  a 
deserted  house.  Where?  Was  he  across  the  way 
from  Madame  Rene's  or  had  he  been  carried  to 
another  part  of  the  town?  While  the  clay  was 
damp,  there  were  no  visible  signs  of  moisture.  Thus 
he  reasoned  that  he  was  nowhere  near  the  Nile. 

194 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

By  the  time  it  was  full  morning  he  could  pull 
one  foot  up  as  far  as  his  knee,  but  beyond  that  not 
an  inch,  nor  could  he  free  the  foot.  The  rogues 
had  made  a  very  good  job  of  it. 

Naturally  there  came  a  period  of  self-reviling. 
He  had  been  warned  against  prowling  off  by  him- 
self at  night,  especially  here  on  the  threshold  of  the 
Orient.  But  he  would  do  it;  and  here  he  was,  a 
prisoner  with  a  battered  head  and  a  burning  thirst. 
What  were  they  holding  him  for — ransom?  Pity 
they  hadn't  broken  his  fool  head  completely.  .  .  . 
The  Ajax!  He  sucked  in  his  cheeks  for  a  bit  of 
saliva.  The  Ajax  was  sailing  at  three  that  after- 
noon, and  from  the  looks  of  things  it  was  going  to 
sail  without  William  Grogan.  He  forgot  his  cau- 
tion, forgot  how  little  strength  he  possessed,  and 
fought  his  bonds  as  a  tiger  fights  the  hunting-net. 
Snarling  and  cursing,  he  sawed  his  feet  and  pulled 
at  his  wrists.  He  desisted  quickly  enough.  The 
sparks  began  to  fly  again  and  the  full  flood  of 
pain  returned.  He  sank  back  against  the  pillar, 
gasping. 

"What  a  fool!    What  a  fool!" 

He  had  promised  Ruth  faithfully  to  return  to 
the  hotel  as  soon  as  the  fights  were  over.  He  had 
broken  his  promise;  and  she  was  all  alone.  He 
began  hiccoughing,  as  much  in  rage  as  in  pain. 

Far  above  a  door  closed  carelessly.  William 
raised  his  head,  listening  tensely  and  trying  to 
strangle  the  hiccoughs.  But  the  sound  of  footsteps 
did  not  follow  the  banging  of  the  door.  It  might 
have  been  the  wind.  Yet,  even  as  he  was  about 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

to  accept  this  as  a  solution,  the  door  leading  into 
the  cellar  swung  on  its  stiff  hinges  and  a  small 
Arab  boy  came  down  the  stone  steps.  He  wore  a 
kind  of  smock,  ragged  and  dirty;  his  legs  and  feet 
were  bare,  and  probably  had  been  since  the  hour 
of  his  birth.  Perched  rakishly  on  the  top  of  his 
shaven  poll  was  a  dilapidated  fez  minus  the  tassel, 
the  stem  of  which  stood  up  like  that  of  an  apple. 
He  was  sore-eyed  but  flyless,  his  particular  bevy 
of  flies  having  rebelled,  doubtless,  against  the  pos- 
sibility of  being  immured  in  darkness.  The  Cairo 
fly  is  a  firm  believer  in  sunshine. 

The  boy  carried  a  loaf  of  bread  under  one  arm 
and  a  water-jar  under  the  other.  The  water-jar 
was  like  those  William  had  often  admired  on  the 
heads  of  the  graceful  balancing  Egyptian  women. 
The  boy  approached  William  and  stared;  his 
glance  was  neither  bold  nor  timorous,  only  mildly 
curious.  The  boy  looked  at  him  quite  as  William 
would  have  looked  at  a  strange  fish  in  the  Battery 
Aquarium  at  home.  Having  satisfied  his  eyes, 
the  boy  nonchalantly  dropped  the  bread  to  the 
ground  and  held  the  water- jar  against  William's 
swollen  lips.  William  drank  like  a  spent  race- 
horse. Next  the  boy  offered  the  bread,  but  Wil- 
liam shook  his  head. 

"Speak  English?"  he  demanded,  thickly. 

The  boy  dropped  the  bread  again,  rose  and 
walked  to  the  stairs,  which  he  began  to  mount. 
He  could  not  have  worn  a  more  stolid  expression 
had  he  been  deaf  and  dumb. 

' '  Hey,  come  back  here !" 
196 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

The  boy  disappeared.  Later  the  street  door 
banged. 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that?"  asked 
William,  addressing  his  shoes.  "Not  a  sound  out 
of  him!  Not  a  blink!  Well,  it's  up  to  me  to 
climb  out  of  this  and  climb  quick.  .  .  .  Hell!" 
he  cried  as  a  stabbing  pain  pierced  his  eyes. 

The  window  was  eight  feet  above  the  floor.  In 
a  corner  stood  a  smoothly  worn  plank  of  teakwood, 
which  had  evidently  been  used  as  a  chute  for  boxes 
or  bales  from  the  outside,  perhaps  cotton  bales,  as 
there  were  tufts  of  cotton  here  and  there  about  the 
corners.  From  this  point  of  view  this  was  a  com- 
plete inventory.  William  hitched  sideways;  the 
other  half  of  the  cellar  was  as  bare  as  his  palm. 
But  in  turning  he  made  a  discovery  which  at  the 
time  suggested  nothing — a  spike  in  the  stone  pillar, 
a  foot  above  his  head.  The  outlook  was  not  at  all 
promising.  His  jailers  would  probably  keep  him 
confined  until  night,  when  they  might  safely 
liberate  him — that  is,  if  it  was  not  ransom.  Well, 
they  hadn't  struck  much  oil,  and  wouldn't.  Four 
sovereigns  and  a  watch  which  had  two  values, 
sentimental  and  intrinsic,  one  hundred  minus 
ninety-eight,  if  you  reckoned  pawnbroker  style; 
for  two  dollars  marked  the  high-water  rate  of 
exchange  at  Uncle  Mose  Cohen's  over  on  Eighth 
Avenue. 

Bang!  It  was  the  outer  door  again.  The  boy 
returned  with  two  Syrian  oranges.  He  squatted 
at  William's  side,  split  the  fruit,  and  solemnly 
poked  the  scarlet  slices  into  the  yawning  mouth 

197 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

eager  to  receive  them.  When  the  oranges  had 
vanished,  the  boy  tilted  the  water-jar  scientifically 
and  William  was  no  longer  thirsty.  But  he  low- 
ered his  head  suggestively.  The  boy  understood 
the  movement,  for  he  sluiced  William's  head 
generously. 

"You're  the  real  Samaritan,  all  right,  boy. 
And  when  you  go  to  Paradise  I  hope  they'll  give 
you  a  harem  two  blocks  long." 

In  return  for  this  excellent  wish  the  boy,  without 
the  least  sign  of  greediness,  proceeded  to  rifle 
William's  pockets;  and  he  was  as  thorough  as  a 
German  chemist.  The  result  of  this  immoral 
procedure  was  a  penknife,  the  key  to  William's 
steamer  trunk,  two  double  piasters  from  a  vest 
pocket  which  had  been  overlooked  by  the  boy's 
elders,  four  receipted  hotel  bills,  and  a  picture 
post-card.  The  boy  tucked  these  ill-gotten  gains 
under  his  fez  and  sprang  up. 

This  was  too  much  for  William's  risibles.  He 
chuckled. 

"In  business  for  yourself,  huh?  Well,  you're 
welcome.  Going?  Take  care  of  yourself.  Any- 
how, I  guess  you've  saved  one  Irishman's  life." 

Alone  once  more,  he  renewed  his  efforts  to  loosen 
the  rope.  Again  he  was  forced  to  give  up.  After 
this  he  fell  asleep.  The  banging  of  kettledrums 
and  the  mournful  wailing  of  reeds  awoke  him. 
The  sounds  passed  and  dwindled.  He  heard  the 
bleating  protest  of  a  camel.  The  angle  of  sunshine 
appalled  him.  It  must  be  somewhere  around  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  He  had  slept  the  major 

198 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

part  of  the  day.  The  Ajax  was  already  on  its 
way  down  to  the  Red  Sea. 

He  sidled  toward  the  water-jar,  wondering  if  he 
could  get  a  drink  without  wasting  the  precious 
fluid.  His  tongue  was  hot  with  fever  again. 
Chance  directed  his  gaze  toward  the  spike  in  the 
pillar,  and  this  time  an  idea  was  born.  If  he 
could  manage  to  get  his  wrists  on  the  level  with 
that  spike.  .  .  . 

It  was  an  arduous  task.  After  half  an  hour 
spent  in  wriggling  and  twisting  and  balancing,  he 
gained  his  feet.  Then  he  leaned  toward  the  spike 
and  began  carefully  to  work  the  knot  against  it. 
An  hour  later  he  kicked  the  rope  off  his  feet. 

He  knew  better  than  to  rush  to  the  window  im- 
mediately. He  needed  life  in  his  tingling  legs  and 
arms.  Yet,  he  hadn't  much  time.  The  boy  or 
his  elders  might  now  return  at  any  moment.  He 
drank  deeply,  ate  some  bread,  took  out  his  hand- 
kerchief (which  the  boy  had  ignored  for  lack  of 
understanding),  and  bathed  the  cut.  Despite 
this  refreshment,  he  felt  weak  and  dizzy. 

He  then  proceeded  to  place  the  chute  against 
the  window-ledge,  crawled  up  with  infinite  labor, 
and  wormed  himself  through.  As  he  rose  to  his 
feet  he  heard  the  shrill  whistle  of  a  railway  engine. 
He  could  not  have  asked  for  a  more  timely  bit  of 
aid.  He  started  off  in  the  direction  of  this  glorious 
whistle  at  a  shambling  trot.  His  progress  re- 
sembled that  of  a  drunken  man,  for  he  was  growing 
more  and  more  light-headed.  But  he  stuck  to  it 
doggedly.  The  houses  careened  at  times,  and  the 
14  J99 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

dusty  road  had  a  peculiar  way  of  sinking  and  rising 
like  the  waves  of  the  sea. 

He  was  in  the  native  quarters;  but  none  hin- 
dered his  advance.  They  knew,  these  experienced 
brown  men,  that  it  was  not  wise  to  trifle  with  red- 
headed drunken  men.  Some  children  tagged  along 
at  his  heels,  however,  shrilling  insults  and  ribald 
jests,  knowing  themselves  to  be  immune  from  any 
attack  more  serious  than  a  chance  smack  of  the 
hand  or  a  boot's  end.  By  and  by  they  desisted; 
the  sport  was  too  tame.  I  doubt  if  William  saw 
or  heard  them. 

He  had  picked  out  a  spot  in  the  sky  and  was 
marching  toward  the  world  directly  under  it. 
That  whistle  had  come  out  of  there  somewhere, 
and  nothing  should  deter  him  from  reaching  that 
somewhere.  A  wild  compass  to  steer  by.  He  had 
neither  sea-lore  nor  wood-lore;  he  had  not  the 
least  comprehension  of  what  a  range  meant,  yet 
he  found  the  railway. 

When  he  came  around  to  a  clear  understanding 
of  time  and  place — for  he  had  made  this  remark- 
able journey  in  a  semi-delirious  condition — the 
night  wind  was  roaring  in  his  face  and  ears,  and 
the  desert,  endless  reaches  of  dull  silver  under  the 
touch  of  moonshine,  was  racing  past.  He  was 
crouching  among  the  heavy  folds  of  canvas  which 
partially  covered  a  box-car  in  a  long  goods-train, 
speeding  in  what  direction  only  God  knew. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  train  drew 
into  a  small  town  and  thence  out  onto  a  long  cem- 
ent pier  south  of  which  lay  a  broad  stretch  of 

200 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

water.  There  were  many  ships  at  anchor.  Thus, 
by  the  kindly  grace  of  God,  who  watches  over 
fools,  drunken  men,  and  particularly  lovers,  Wil- 
liam had  reached  the  port  of  his  heart's  desire, 
Suez. 

After  making  several  inquiries,  he  found  the 
coal-lighters  were  in  readiness  to  move  out  the 
moment  the  Ajax  dropped  off  Port  Ibrahim.  He 
went  aboard  one  of  these.  The  Arabs  did  not 
molest  him.  Quite  within  reason  they  thought 
he  was  some  drunken  stoker  who  had  lost  his  ship 
at  Port  Said.  He  certainly  looked  disreputable 
enough. 

When  he  saw  the  Ajax  slip  out  of  the  canal, 
when  he  heard  the  metallic  music  of  her  chains,  he 
laid  his  dizzy  head  upon  his  knees.  It  seemed 
almost  impossible  that  he  had  accomplished  it. 
There  was  a  big  gap.  He  could  remember  noth- 
ing from  the  moment  he  had  left  his  prison  until 
he  sensed  his  surroundings  aboard  the  goods-train. 

"Sister,"  he  murmured,  "but  for  you  I'd  never 
have  made  it,  believe  me !  Maybe  God  ain't  good 
to  one  red-headed  Mick!  Now,  who's  this  man 
Orestes  who  was  with  Colburton  that  night  in 
Venice ?  That's  the  guy  I'm  looking  for. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"  AND  that's  what  happened,  sister,"  he  said, 

/A  later.  "It  can't  be  done,  it  can't  be  done. 
I'm  going  along  with  the  Ajax,  and  that's  all  there 
is  to  it." 

"I  could  shake  you!"  she  cried,  hysterically. 

"Don't  try  it,  sister;  I'm  not  stuck  together 
very  well  this  morning." 

"I  knew  you'd  been  hurt;  and  once  I  was  sure 
that  you  were  dead.  How  I  have  worried!  You 
deserve  a  shaking,"  she  repeated.  It  was  a  case 
of  talk  or  cry. 

"Believe  me,  I  got  the  shaking  all  right." 

''Your  poor  head!" 

"Some  little  old  good-night  sign  they  hung  on 
me— huh?" 

"But  you  promised  me — " 

"Guilty  as  charged!  And,  say,  of  all  the  punk 
dancing  I  ever  saw,  those  dames  beat  the  clock! 
There  used  to  be  a  bear  out  at  the  Bronx;  he  had 
the  rheumatism,  and  for  a  peanut  he'd  dance  those 
skirts  to  a  standstill.  Now,  don't  /ou  worry 
about  my  head.  It's  solid  ivory.  But  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  the  Arab  kid  frisk  my  pockets.  It 
was  worth  two  dollars  a  seat,  standing  room  only. 
The  little  rat  never  batted  an  eye-winker.  Well, 

202 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

no  more  prowling  alone  at  night.  That  goes. 
Now  you  toddle  along  to  your  bunk.  I'm  going 
for  a  wash-up.  Gee!  When  I  think  of  what  I'm 
going  to  do  to  that  cake  of  soap !  I'll  have  the  doc 
fix  the  cut." 

"I  still  don't  understand  how  you  got  here." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  how  the  day  you  tell  me  what 
I've  got  that  scholars  haven't";  and  before  she 
could  frame  a  reply  he  had  disappeared  into  the 
companionway. 

After  the  bath  the  doctor  took  six  stitches  in  the 
cut  and  ordered  William  to  stay  in  his  berth  until 
late  in  the  afternoon.  So  when  he  came  on  deck 
at  tea-time  the  Ajaoc  was  well  down  into  the  Red 
Sea.  He  was  mildly  disappointed,  and  he  com- 
plained to  Ruth  over  their  tea-cups.  There  was 
no  change  in  the  color  of  the  water.  It  might 
have  been  different  in  Biblical  times,  but  there  was 
no  license  for  calling  it  red  in  the  year  nineteen- 
twelve.  All  this  nonsense  cheered  Ruth.  Ap- 
parently nothing  could  crush  or  depress  the 
dynamic  spirit  of  this  adopted  brother  of  hers, 
To  be  able  to  joke  after  all  he  had  gone  through! 

She  pondered  over  the  whimsy  of  fate  that  had 
brought  William's  path  parallel  and  adjacent  to 
her  own.  A  beautiful  natural  friendship  like  this, 
to  bud  and  blossom  out  of  a  pair  of  shoes,  her  own, 
flitting  day  by  day  past  his  cellar  window!  It 
read  like  a  fairy-story.  A  beautiful  friendship 
because  it  was  based  upon  protection  and  confi- 
dence, the  very  keystone  of  friendship. 

Scarcely  half  a  dozen  passengers  had  heard  of 
203 


William's  adventure;  and  their  knowledge  did  not 
extend  beyond  the  vague  information  that  he  had 
been  set  upon  and  robbed.  That  he  had  not  come 
aboard  at  Port  Said  none  suspected.  Only  Ruth, 
Camden,  and  the  ship's  officers  had  this  side  of  the 
tale.  Except  for  a  bit  of  swelling  and  a  dull-red 
mark  against  the  lighter  red  of  his  hair,  he  struck 
the  casual  eye  as  being  normal  as  usual. 

Camden,  because  the  weather  was  thick  and 
hot,  decided  to  remain  below  until  near  sunset. 
He  had  the  steward  put  out  a  chair  on  the  main 
deck,  under  his  port,  and  all  day  long  he  loafed 
there  in  his  pajamas  and  bath-robe,  smoking  and 
reading.  When  the  steward  came  and  asked  him 
if  he  would  be  wanting  tea,  Camden  declared  that 
he  would  dress  and  go  above  for  that. 

At  quarter  after  five  he  went  into  the  smoke- 
room  and  had  his  tea  there.  He  was  reading  from 
a  bundle  of  American  newspapers,  reviewing  the 
big  league  standings,  when  he  felt  the  springs  of 
the  lounge  bound.  He  looked  around  to  behold 
an  amiably  grinning  ghost. 

"Where  the  devil  did  you  come  from?"  Camden 
demanded.  "I  thought  we'd  lost  you.  I  told 
you  to  go  straight  back  to  your  hotel  last  night. 
Miss  Jones  has  been  frantic.  Well,  what  hap- 
pened?" 

"I  followed  a  man." 

"No  doubt;  and  got  that  beautiful  crack  on  the 
side  of  the  head." 

"And  all  he  got  was  about  four  sovereigns. 
Yea,  bo!" 

204 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"You  didn't  have  your  money  with  you?" 

"Nope.  Say,  but  the  Irish  are  lucky.  They 
can't  beat  us  for  luck.  There's  been  a  jinx  hang- 
ing around  me  for  months.  It's  like  this.  Two  or 
three  years  ago  I  got  mixed  up  in  a  Black  Hand 
row.  Sent  'em  up  the  river.  But  some  of  then- 
friends  kept  tab  on  me,  and  these  wops  laid  for 
me  in  Naples,  Florence,  in  Rome.  Ye-ah.  But 
here's  William  Grogan,  large  as  life.  They  finally 
got  to  my  letter  of  credit.  Naples.  They  tried 
the  game  once  in  mid-Atlantic.  And  I  never  sus- 
pected it  was  a  wop  that  jumped  me  that  night. 
But  they  didn't  get  the  pink  book  with  my  signa- 
ture. In  Rangoon  a  new  one  will  be  waiting  for 
me  at  Cook's." 

"And  so  you  think  you've  laid  the  jinx?" 

"  Well,  it  begins  to  look  like  it." 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  you  knew  the  way  back  to 
the  hotel?" 

"And  so  I  did.  But  I  was  invited  to  Madame 
Rene's  soo-ary — the  light  fantastic,  very  light — 
and  I  went.  And  then  somebody  hit  me  on  the 
bean  with  a  gas-pipe." 

"They  rooked  you,  of  course." 

"Well,  you  might  call  it  petty  larceny.  I  had 
only  four  sovereigns  and  an  old  silver  watch.  So 
I  guess  the  joke  was  on  them.  Caught  a  freight 
from  Cairo  to  Suez.  Bunged  up  a  little,  but 
nothing  to  speak  of." 

Camden  folded  his  papers.  "Grogan,  I'll  split 
a  pint  of  wine." 

"Wine?    Nothing  doing." 
205 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Might  as  well.  Not  a  soul  on  board  will  be- 
lieve you  weren't  off  on  a  bender." 

"Let  'em  believe." 

"Well,  one  thing  is  certain — you  need  a  guar- 
dian." 

"Maybe  I've  got  one." 

"Sure  enough — Irish  luck.  You're  a  wonder. 
I  know  this  part  of  the  world.  Not  one  man  in  a 
thousand  would  have  got  out  of  that  hole." 

"I  had  to  get  out,"  said  William,  gravely. 

"Tell  me  the  whole  adventure." 

William  was  agreeable.  It  was  all  a  huge  joke 
to  him,  of  the  kind  he  took  a  good  deal  of  pleasure 
in  telling.  "But  that  Arab  kid!"  he  concluded, 
tenderly  rubbing  his  head.  "I  wish  you  could 
liave  seen  his  fiz.  Mrs.  Sphinx  was  his  grand- 
mother, take  it  from  me." 

"You  won't  split  a  bottle?" 

* '  Nope.    I  take  my  Catawbas  with  the  skins  on. " 

"That  reminds  me.  A  man  doesn't  like  to  refer 
to  those  lapses  where  he  behaves  like  a  fool.  You 
played  the  Good  Samaritan  that  night  in  Brindisi. 
Thanks.  Grogan,  the  truth  is,  I  travel  to  keep  away 
from  New  York.  There  I'm  lost:  too  many  friends 
When  I'm  at  sea  I  get  away  from  it  all  and  kind 
of  get  a  grip  on  life  again.  You  understand?" 

"Sure.  And  so  I  won't  drink  with  you. 
There's  nothing  to  it." 

"Nothing  in  this  wide  world,"  Camden  agreed, 
staring  at  the  floor. 

It  was  at  Aden.     Camden  was  leaving  the  Ajax 
206 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

at  that  modified  hell  on  the  bleak  Arabian  shore. 
The  Ajaoc  did  not  drop  her  anchor;  she  simply 
stopped  her  engines  and  drifted  slowly.  Only 
three  passengers  were  to  disembark,  Camden  and 
two  British  officers  who  had  come  aboard  at  Port 
Said.  The  sun  was  just  up.  William  wore  only 
his  pajamas  and  bath-robe;  he  had  been  sleeping 
on  deck. 

"Good-by  and  good  luck,"  he  said,  as  Camden 
started  down  the  ladder. 

"So  long,  Orestes;  take  care  of  yourself," 
called  back  Camden  as  he  stepped  in  among  the 
Arab  boatmen. 

And  the  deed  was  done,  the  veil  rent.  The 
short  hair  at  the  base  of  William's  neck  stood  out 
like  the  hair  on  the  back  of  a  dog  in  the  fighting- 
pit.  Orestes!  The  grin  on  his  lips  suffered  a 
temporary  petrifaction  which  lasted  until  the  Arab 
oarsmen  were  well  under  way.  The  jackal! 
Camden  waved  his  hand  airily.  William  replied 
with  a  menacing  fist;  but  Camden  was  too  far 
away  to  appreciate  the  significance  of  that  gesture. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

/^AMDEN,  blissfully  unconscious  that  he  had 
^^  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  landed  at  the 
jetty.  It  was  early  morning,  yet  the  heat  was 
already  excessive  and  enervating. 

"Mr.  Camden!" 

Camden  turned  to  find  Norton  Colburton's 
Japanese  valet  at  his  elbow. 

' ' Hello,  Saki !    Where's  your  master  ?" 

"He  iss  at  the  offissers'  club,  and  wants  to  see 
you  at  once,  sar." 

"Where's  the  yacht?" 

"Back  at  ten  o'clock,  sar." 

"All  right.     Nort  is  up  pretty  early  for  him." 

The  valet  shrugged.  His  master  got  up  early 
or  he  got  up  late,  it  was  all  the  same  to  him. 

Camden  barked  some  words  to  his  Arab  boat- 
men— he  had  a  traveler's  smattering  of  half  a 
dozen  tongues — and  proceeded  into  town.  At 
seven -thirty  he  rapped  on  the  door  of  Col- 
burton's  room  at  the  officers'  club  and  was  bidden 
to  enter. 

Colburton  was  in  pajamas  and  sandals,  and  he 
was  sipping  tea. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Dick."  He  waved  his  hand 
toward  a  chair.  "Haven't  been  to  bed  yet. 

208 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Bridge  all  night.  Well,  what's  the  news  from  the 
good  ship  Ajax?" 

Camden  lighted  a  cigarette  and  inhaled  deeply. 
"Punk,  if  you  want  to  know.  The  Irishman 
turned  up  at  Suez.  Not  one  man  in  ten  thousand 
would  have  got  out  of  the  hole  I  put  him  in.  I 
warned  you  in  Venice." 

"You  were  probably  off  on  your  old  trick — 
champagne.  Camden,  while  you're  at  work  for 
me  you  cut  out  that  or  I'll  drop  you." 

Camden's  eyes  narrowed.  It  might  have  beem 
the  smoke  of  his  cigarette.  "When  you  called 
me  up  in  June  and  gave  me  that  photograph, 
I  kept  away  from  the  stuff.  Believe  it  or  not. 
I  combed  New  York  with  a  fine-tooth  comb. 
Knowing  that  she  went  to  the  movies,  I  patronized 
them  until  my  eyes  began  to  fail.  Never  saw  her. 
I  hunted  up  all  the  school-teachers  who  knew  her. 
Not  a  crumb.  I  tried  the  branch  post-office,  with 
barren  results.  Finally  I  happened  to  think  of  the 
school  commissioners.  That  was  the  last  chance. 
Here  luck  was  with  me.  She  was  not  sure  that  she 
would  teach  in  the  fall  term.  I  told  them  I  was  a 
lawyer  and  that  there  was  a  small  legacy.  They 
gave  me  her  new  address.  When  I  got  there  she 
was  gone.  She  had  gone  that  afternoon.  The 
landlady  didn't  know  where  she  had  gone.  Any- 
how, she  wasn't  coming  back.  I  asked  to  see  the 
room  she  had  vacated.  Here  I  was  detective. 
On  the  floor  of  that  room  I  found  a  crumpled 
ship's  label — the  Ajax.  I  left.  Later  I  learned 
that  the  Ajax  was  making  a  tour  of  the  world  and 

209 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

would  sail  the  following  afternoon.  I  took  a 
chance.  Two  grips  were  all  I  had.  I  saw  her  go 
up  the  gang-plank.  All  pretty  work,  if  you  want 
my  opinion.  Late  that  night  I  sent  a  wireless  to 
you." 

"Any  detective  could  have  done  that  for  a 
hundred,  and  I  gave  you  two  thousand  as  a  starter, 
another  thousand  in  Venice,  with  the  promise  of 
five  at  the  end  of  the  run.  And  you  couldn't  even 
get  the  best  of  a  red-headed  Irishman  who  ought 
to  have  been  clay  in  your  hands." 

"There  are  various  kinds  of  clay,"  replied 
Camden,  moodily.  "I  tell  you,  this  Gerry  Owen 
is  out  of  the  ordinary.  He's  as  strong  as  a  lion. 
He  was  born  and  brought  up  on  the  streets, 
which  is  to  say  he's  no  man's  fool.  I  stole  his 
letter  of  credit.  I  set  thugs  upon  him  in  Rome 
and  Florence;  I  packed  him  away  with  a  broken 
head  in  Cairo;  and  he  bade  me  good-by  from  the 
starboard  rail  this  morning.  To  this  hour  I 
don't  know  whether  he  suspects  me  or  not.  I've 
used  every  kind  of  a  trap  to  pump  him,  and  never 
got  a  drop.  He's  watching  over  that  girl.  He's  in 
love  with  her." 

Colburton  got  up  and  began  to  pace  the  room; 
but  this  activity  proved  too  much  for  him,  and  he 
sat  down  abruptly. 

"Better  call  it  off,"  suggested  Camden. 

"You  have  never  known  me  to  steer  off,  have 
you?" 

"No,  Orestes,  I  have  not;  and  some  day  you're 
going  to  get  bumped  hard.  Keep  your  hair  on. 

2IO 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

We  grew  up  together;  but  you  were  hard  and  I 
was  soft.  You  never  let  cards  and  wine  get  the 
best  of  you,  nor  any  woman,  for  that  matter. 
Devil  a  bit  do  I  care  which  way  it  goes;  I'll  go  on 
with  it.  I  need  money.  And  the  job  you  offer 
me  is  the  only  kind  left  for  a  polecat  like  myself." 

"Moralizing,  eh?" 

"No,  I  used  to  moralize.  I  do  still  when  I've 
just  got  over  a  bender.  Bad  as  I  am,  there's  a 
white  corner  or  two  sticking  around  in  my  soul; 
and  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  this  deal.  It  doesn't 
look  successful." 

"Leave  that  end  of  it  to  me.  I'll  break  your 
Gerry  Owen,  and  then  I'll  break  the  girl.  Break 
her  like  that!"  Colburton  closed  his  fists  and 
struck  them  against  his  knees. 

"Then  you  only  want  to  break  her?"  asked  the 
jackal,  curiously.  "You're  not  mad  about  her 
any  more,  then?" 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

"Nothing,  m'  lord,  nothing.  But  you  might 
lower  your  tone  a  little.  I  don't  like  it." 

Colburton  plucked  at  his  mustache.  "Has  she 
made  any  attempt  to  dispose  of  it?" 

"No.  She's  a  woman.  She's  probably  deathly 
afraid  by  now.  What '11 1  do  to  Grogan?" 

"Leave  him  to  me.  The  yacht  will  be  off  the 
jetty  at  ten.  You  go  aboard  of  her.  You'll  find 
your  trunks  in  your  old  cabin.  We  go  straight  to 
Ceylon.  From  there  to  Perak,  where  I'm  going  to 
do  a  little  hunting." 

"That's  a  long  time  to  wait." 
an 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Colburton  drank  his  tea.     ' '  Want  some  ? ' ' 

' '  Had  my  breakfast  on  board. ' '  Camden  smiled 
at  the  other's  sudden  conciliatory  mood.  So  long 
as  this  Pied  Piper  of  Petticoat  Lane  had  use  for 
him,  there  was  no  need  to  worry  about  the  imme- 
diate future.  Besides,  he  had  an  idea.  If  it 
worked  out  he  could  go  on  his  own  for  several 
years  to  come.  "When  will  you  come  aboard 
the£Zsof" 

"About  four.  Some  officers  are  coming. 
There'll  be  bridge.  I'll  drop  out  after  dinner  and 
you  can  play  a  few  rubbers.  They're  a  reckless 
lot.  Sixpence  a  point. ' ' 

"Thanks  for  the  manna.  It  pleases  me  to 
know  that  you  know  I'm  not  a  crook  with  cards, 
only  skilful.  Well,  I'll  see  you  at  four.  What  are 
your  plans?" 

"I'm  mulling  them  over  now.  I  want  her  to 
believe  I've  given  up.  I'll  let  her  have  October 
and  November.  She'll  grow  careless.  I'll  fix 
your  Irishman." 

"I'll  do  my  share,  but  it's  got  to  be  a  plausible 
trick,  Orestes,  a  plausible  trick.  The  way  that 
man  Grogan  hovers  around  that  girl  is  an  illumina- 
tion. He  knows  that  something's  wrong,  that 
she's  in  danger,  though  he  doesn't  know  what 
it  is." 

"I  ran  into  him  in  Venice,"  said  Colburton, 
coldly.  "I'm  glad  you  tell  me  he's  in  love  with 
her.  If  you  can  twist  a  man's  heart,  it's  better 
than  twisting  his  bones." 

Camden  departed.     Poor  Grogan!    It  was  not 

212 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

possible  that  he  should  slip  through  every  trap. 
Sooner  or  later,  he  would  have  to  pay  dearly  for 
his  devotion.  For  Camden  could  not  get  away 
from  the  fact  that  he  liked  the  Ir  shman.  Sup- 
posing he  surrendered  to  the  impulse  to  clear  out? 
Within  six  months'  time  he  would  be  absolutely 
penniless,  living  in  some  cheap  boarding-house 
which  would  automatically  grow  cheaper  as  the 
days  went  by.  His  good  clothes  and  his  jewels 
would  be  in  pawn.  .  .  .  No  use.  H  was  no 
good;  it  was  too  late  now  even  if  he  wanted 
earnestly  to  be  good.  He  was  too  deeply  in  the 
web.  It  was  written;  he  would  have  to  go  on  to 
the  end.  He  would  probably  die  alone  in  some 
Oriental  rat -hole. 

Camden  laughed  suddenly.  There  was  a  chance 
for  him,  if  he  played  his  cards  carefully.  It  was 
worth  trying.  It  was,  in  truth,  his  main  reason 
for  accepting  this  equivocal  adventure. 

Midnight. 

The  Elsa  tugged  at  her  cables.  Somewhere 
out  in  the  Indian  Ocean  a  great  storm  was  running. 
Colburton's  guests  had  returned  to  the  town,  and 
he  sat  alone  among  the  empty  bottles  and  scat- 
tered cards.  The  little  silk  curtains  over  the  open 
ports  flapped  and  snapped.  Outside,  the  davits 
creaked,  now  to  starboard,  now  to  port. 

The  saloon  was  richly  furnished.  It  served  both 
as  dining-room  and  lounge  during  rough  weather. 
Port  and  starboard  ran  low  book-shelves,  and 
there  were  several  hundred  books  in  exquisite 

213 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

hides.  But  not  one  of  them  appeared  thumbed, 
beloved.  On  this  yacht  books  had  never  been  a 
source  of  amusement,  they  had  never  been  reck- 
oned as  friends;  they  went  with  the  teak,  the 
gilt,  and  the  Persian  rugs.  Your  real  library 
should  be  haunted  by  friendly  ghosts;  but  if  there 
were  any  ghosts  in  this  one,  they  were  still  tight 
in  their  tombs.  This  was  a  pleasure  yacht  which 
the  present  owner  had  inherited  six  years  before. 

Over  the  mantel  was  the  portrait  of  an  elderly 
man.  The  artist  had  done  what  he  could  to  soften 
the  face;  but  because  he  was  an  artist  one  saw  the 
money-changer  in  the  Temple  in  the  cold,  thin 
lips  and  repellent  eyes.  At  the  other  end  of  the 
saloon,  over  the  sideboard,  was  the  portrait  of  a 
woman.  This,  too,  had  been  idealized;  yet  even 
so  one  caught  the  emptiness  of  the  eyes,  the  vanity 
and  selfishness  in  the  droop  of  the  lips.  One  was 
the  father  and  the  other  was  the  mother  of  the 
young  man  below. 

But  he  was  an  old  young  man.  You  might 
have  computed  his  age  in  eons  instead  of  years. 
He  was  thirty-five;  and  a  man  should  be  really 
young  at  that  age.  He  was  well  built,  quite 
graceful  when  he  moved,  and  undeniably  hand- 
some— that  is,  if  you  weren't  specialized  in  physi- 
ognomy. His  eyes  were  like  his  father's;  but 
the  mother  lips  of  him  were  hidden  under  a  well- 
turned  mustache. 

Norton  Colburton  was  what  his  parents  had 
made  him.  We  all  are,  more  or  less.  There  is  no 
reason  why  our  immediate  progenitors  should  not 

214 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

be  forced  to  cany  some  of  the  burden.  A  cold- 
blooded, money-making  father  on  one  side  and  a 
vain,  dissatisfied  pleasure-loving  mother  on  the 
other,  it  followed  naturally  that  these  attributes 
should  combine  in  the  offspring.  The  old  man  had 
roared  and  cursed  at  the  son,  and  the  mother  had 
pampered  him.  The  boy  had  afforded  the  parents 
a  mutual  ground  for  quarreling.  They  never  met 
that  they  did  not  wrangle  over  him.  Not  that 
they  cared  particularly  whether  he  went  wrong  or 
right,  but  because  the  elder  Colburton  hated  his 
wife  and  was  despised  by  her.  A  man  with  the 
soul  of  David  might  have  come  through  this  un- 
scathed; but  the  younger  Colburton  had  the  soul 
of  a  Jacob,  always  ready  to  exchange  a  mess  of 
pottage  for  a  birthright. 

All  alone  now,  free  of  all  manner  of  leashes,  he 
was  proud  of  his  riches  and  the  power  they  gave 
him.  He  was  an  unfettered  king.  He  had  abso- 
lute freedom.  He  had  millions  which  would  not 
fritter  away,  no  matter  how  deeply  he  plunged 
his  hands  into  them.  All  doors  opened  at  a  nod 
from  his  head,  and  a  gesture  scattered  obstacles  as 
the  north  winds  scatter  the  dead  leaves  of  autumn. 
To  wish  was  to  have,  which  is  not  a  good  thing  for 
any  man. 

Norton  Colburton  had  never  done  a  kindness 
without  some  ulterior  purpose,  always  negative  so 
far  as  goodness  was  concerned.  Women  were  a 
source  of  pleasure  and  amusement.  That  they 
had  been  predestined  to  bring  up  sons  straight  and 
clean  was  an  idea  which  lay  unformative  in  his 
15  215 


mind.  He  never  saw  in  any  of  his  dreams,  as 
William  Grogan  saw  in  his,  a  home,  a  garden,  a 
wife,  and  a  couple  of  kids. 

As  he  smoked  his  pipe,  his  eyes  half  closed,  he 
smiled  from  time  to  time.  By  and  by  he  laughed 
outright  and  summoned  his  valet. 

"Cable  blanks,"  he  said.  He  wrote:  "Cook, 
Rangoon.  Forward  all  mail  Bombay  office  at 
once."  He  signed  this  cable — "William  Grogan." 

Then  he  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WILLIAM  found  it  hard  to  resist  the  desire 
to  leap  the  rail,  swim  out  to  Camden,  and 
throttle  him.  He  might  have  done  so  but  for  one 
thing.  Aden  was  English.  Recently  he  had 
heard  something  about  the  immutability  of  the 
English  law.  If  you  killed  a  man  in  cold  blood 
they  really  made  you  pay  the  penalty,  these 
Britishers.  It  did  not  matter  a  continental 
whoop  how  many  dollars  and  lawyers  you  could 
mobilize;  if  they  found  you  guilty  you  paid  the 
penalty.  You  couldn't  lug  in  brain-storms,  alien- 
ists, and  handwriting  experts,  appeal  from  court  to 
court  until  for  very  weariness  some  jury  would  let 
you  go.  No;  these  Britishers  hanged  you  or  sent 
you  to  penal  servitude  for  life,  and  no  back  talk. 

So  William  did  not  jump  overboard.  They 
would  have  locked  him  up  in  Aden,  tried  him,  and 
hanged  him.  Under  such  conditions  the  death 
of  Camden  would  benefit  no  one  but  Colburton, 
who  might  be  pleased  to  hear  of  the  death  of  his 
jackal.  Besides,  William  saw  another  side  of  the 
square :  he  hadn't  a  shred  of  real  evidence  against 
Camden,  he  had  only  suppositions.  He  knew,  but 
the  law  would  not  be  able  to  recognize  what  he 
knew  as  evidence. 

217 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

There  was  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  in  his  mind; 
everything  now  dovetailed  so  nicely.  For  what 
reason  had  Camden  stolen  his  wallet,  his  letter  of 
credit,  set  rogues  upon  him  in  Rome  and  Florence 
and  Cairo?  To  put  him  out  of  the  way  so  as  to 
leave  Ruth  without  protection.  No  one  on  board 
the  Ajaoo  would  have  bothered  to  watch  over  her. 

Orestes!  Just  a  little  word  like  that  to  rend 
the  veil  completely.  From  under  the  ports  of  the 
yacht  Elsa  he  had  heard  that  name,  and  Camden 
himself  had  spoken  it.  Hadn't  Camden's  voice 
been  familiar  yet  unplaceable?  And  yet,  day  after 
day,  they  had  been  together,  and  the  man's  voice 
had  awakened  no  recollection.  William's  pride 
in  his  ability  to  reduce  complexities  into  simplici- 
ties, after  the  fashion  of  his  favorite  detectives, 
had  received  a  rude  buffet. 

"You  scum!  If  I  wasn't  the  biggest  boob  that 
ever  wore  a  collar,  you  wouldn't  be  in  that  boat, 
standing  up.  Laughing  behind  my  back  all  these 
weeks,  and  nearly  getting  me  in  Cairo.  Orestes, 
huh?  You  wait;  I've  got  a  trick  yet.  You're 
going  away  without  knowing  I  know,  and  there's 
where  I'm  going  to  get  you  when  the  time  comes. 
And  when  I  get  through  with  you  and  your  master, 
neither  of  you'll  ever  bother  another  woman. 
Scum!" 

He  had  often  heard  and  read  of  men  like  Col- 
burton,  but  he  had  not  credited  their  actual 
existence.  William  knew  the  man  as  a  hunter  of 
women,  but  that  he  would  let  his  fancy  lead  him 
around  the  world  was  a  revelation  as  to  what 

218 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

lengths  such  men  would  go  in  pursuit  of  their 
mad  pleasures. 

William  sloughed  off  a  considerable  quantity 
of  veneer  that  morning.  He  wanted  to  beat 
something,  crush  and  pound.  A  deck-hand  acci- 
dentally bumped  against  him,  and  William  turned 
upon  him  with  a  snarl  so  baldly  savage  that  the 
poor  devil  jumped  back,  spilling  his  bucket. 

4 '  Beg  pardon,  sir ;  beg  pardon !' ' 

"Look  where  you're  going!" 

William,  realizing  that  he  must  find  something 
upon  which  to  vent  his  rage,  opened  the  door  to 
the  gymnasium,  threw  aside  his  bath-robe,  and 
began  hammering  the  bag.  For  half  an  hour  the 
thunder  of  it  could  be  heard  all  over  the  deck. 

It  was  childish;  no  one  would  grant  that  more 
readily  than  William  himself.  Not  half  a  dozen 
times  in  his  life  had  such  murderous  rage  laid  hold 
of  him.  So  it  was  far  better  to  rid  himself  of  it  in 
this  childish  manner  than  to  carry  it  around  sim- 
mering in  his  heart.  By  the  time  he  had  got  out 
of  his  tub  he  was  normal  enough  to  feel  ashamed 
of  himself. 

He  would  say  nothing  to  Ruth.  Why  worry 
her?  She  believed — or  at  least  she  pretended  to 
believe — that  that  chapter  in  her  life  had  been 
turned  down.  And  it  was  his  self-appointed  task 
to  see  that  it  remained  turned  down.  But  in 
failing  to  disclose  his  discovery  to  Ruth  he  made  a 
terrible  mistake,  one  which  was  o  cause  him  ten 
days  of  the  most  indescribable  misery  he  was  ever 
to  know. 

219 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Later,  when  Ruth  came  up,  she  saw  nothing 
amiss.  She  put  her  usual  questions  perfunctorily. 
Had  he  slept  well?  Did  the  pain  bother  him  dur~ 
ing  the  night?  For  all  that  the  cut  had  healed 
quickly  and  healthily,  William  was  subjected 
occasionally  to  splitting  headaches,  a  sign  indic- 
ative that  he  had  come  out  of  that  affair  in  Cairo 
by  a  very  narrow  margin. 

"So  Mr.  Camden  has  really  left  us?"  she  said, 
lying  back  lazily,  grateful  for  the  shade  of  the 
deck  canopy.  "He  was  rather  amusing  at  times." 

"Ye-ah."     A  growl. 

"He  was  well  informed  about  this  part  of  the 
world." 

"Ye-ah."    A  little  louder. 

"He  left  a  dozen  books  for  me.  Maeterlinck — 
think  of  it !  Very  nice  of  him,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Ye-ah!"    A  real  bark. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Matter?" 

"Ye-ah,"  she  mimicked.  "Can't  you  say  'uh- 
huh'  for  a  change?" 

William  did  not  want  to  laugh.  At  the  mention 
of  Camden  all  the  early  fury  returned.  He  knew 
his  Irish  temperament;  if  he  laughed  his  anger 
would  go  by  the  board;  and  his  mood  now  was 
one  which  found  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  fanning 
the  coals  of  hate  to  keep  them  alive  against  the 
day  when  he  and  Camden  met  again.  But  there 
was  this  that  worried  him:  his  gray-eyed  school- 
teacher could  see  like  a  cat  in  the  dark;  and  if  once 
she  sensed  anything  wrong,  her  questions  might 

220 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

become  embarrassing.  So  he  compromised  by 
forcing  a  grin. 

"I  guess  you  can't  teach  old  dogs  new  tricks. 
I  never  knew  there  was  a  word  called  'yes' 
until  it  was  too  late  to  do  any  good.  But  I 
don't  say  'uh-huh'  as  much  as  I  used  to.  'S 
that  right?  And,  anyhow  'ye-ah'  is  Elijah  stuff 
boiled  down." 

" EH jah  stuff!" 

He  sighed  relievedly.  She  was  off  the  Camden 
line,  and  that  was  something  gained.  "Sure  it's 
Elijah  stuff.  Wasn't  he  always  hitting  the  trail 
with 'Yea,  verily'?" 

"I'm  beginning  to  believe  you  wouldn't  please 
me  at  all  if  you  didn't  use  colloquialisms  once 
in  a  while.  Away  out  here  there's  something 
back-homey  about  them.  The  Indian  Ocean, 
Arabia!  That  Red  Sea  was  very  hot." 

"If  they'd  call  it  the  Red-hot  Sea  I  could  under- 
stand what  they  meant.  I've  been  leaving  a  trail 
of  fat  wherever  I  moved.  Look  at  the  clothes  I'm 
wearing.  I  never  thought  to  buy  real  summer 
stuff.  They're  beginning  to  have  their  first 
snow-storms  in  little  New  York.  Say,  what  do 
you  think?  Thanksgiving  in  Delhi,  and  not  a 
pumpkin  within  ten  thousand  miles." 

"Honest?" 

"Honest  Injun.  And  Christmas  in  Hong- 
Kong,  and  everything  out  of  tin  cans.  Yea, 
verily,  I'm  going  to  be  homesick  along  about  that 
time,  believe  me,  sister." 

' '  Christmas !     I  feel  cooler  already. ' ' 

221 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Four  deck-hands  appeared  at  a  run.  They 
began  working  at  the  canvas  canopy. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  demanded  William, 
getting  up. 

"Orders  to  lash  everything,  sir.  Blow  coming 
up  fast  out  of  the  sou'east,  sir." 

William  and  Ruth  ran  to  the  starboard  rail  and 
stared  at  the  great  evil  pall  of  blue-black  clouds 
pouring  up  over  the  eastern  horizon.  The  face 
of  the  waters  changed  even  as  they  gazed. 

"A  storm!"  she  cried. 

"Well,  Cook  can't  soak  us  extra  for  that,"  said 
William. 

Ruth  ran  back  to  the  chairs  and  gathered  up  the 
rugs,  pillows,  and  books,  piling  them  into  Wil- 
liam's outstretched  arms.  ' '  Hurry !" 

The  companionway  was  jammed  with  excited 
tourists.  William  heard  "typhoon"  and  "tor- 
nado" and  "hurricane";  and  one  of  the  mis- 
sioners  began  to  recount  a  previous  adventure 
of  his  in  which  the  ship  went  down,  and  was 
only  too  happy  to  go  into  details.  William  surged 
toward  him,  hoping  to  get  within  range  of  the 
fool's  shins.  But  the  second  officer  spoke  up 
loudly.  Typhoon  was  all  nonsense ;  only  a  stiffish 
blow  was  coming  and  would  probably  be  over  in 
an  hour  or  two. 

William  was  not  satisfied,  however.  He  knew 
where  he  could  get  the  truth;  and  so  he  started  for 
the  chief  engineer's  cabin.  But  as  he  encountered 
that  officer  in  the  act  of  descending  to  the  engine- 
room,  his  official  drill  exchanged  for  greasy  dunga- 

222 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

rees,    William    comprehended    that    he    and   his 
fellow-voyagers  were  in  for  some  excitement. 

"A  blow?" 

"Aye,  and  a  hell  of  a  one,  too,  if  I  know  anything 
about  these  dirty  waters.  This  blow  is  a  thousand 
miles  from  home,  Mr.  Grogan;  and  I  don't  like 
its  looks.  It's  Chinese,  and  we're  just  off  the 
coast  of  Araby.  Y'  never  can  tell  what's  in  the 
egg  when  y'  turn  the  point  at  Aden.  Oh,  there's 
no  real  danger.  She'll  pitch  a  lot  and  the  stewards 
'11  be  busy  with  their  yellow  basins.  But  it's 
me  and  the  captain  without  relief  as  long  as  it 
lasts;  twenty  hours  for  me  in  yon  hell-hole, 
mayhap.  Can't  ask  you  to  come  down,  Mr. 
Grogan.  Good  luck  to  your  lunch — if  you've  got 
the  gall  to  eat  it!" 

William  stole  back  to  the  smoke-room.  It  was 
deserted.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  could  see 
little  or  nothing  from  this  point;  so  he  went  for- 
ward to  the  ladies'  saloon.  That,  too,  was  deserted. 
Rugs  and  pillows  and  books  and  baskets  of  fruit 
lay  strewn  about.  He  knelt  on  the  lounge  under 
a  forward  port  and  peered  out.  It  was  almost 
as  black  as  night  outside;  but  the  sea  was  green 
and  terrible.  Suddenly  he  sensed  a  shiver;  it 
seemed  to  come  from  the  very  bowels  of  the  ship, 
as  if  she  had  become  a  living  thing,  sensing  her 
trap.  Shortly  after  th  s  he  heard  a  sound  which 
reminded  him  of  rubbing  resined  fingers  over  the 
top  of  a  deep  glass  tumbler.  This  p'ercing  hum 
rang  in  his  ears  intermittently  hours  after  the 
storm  was  over. 

223 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

There  was  no  pitching  in  the  beginning;  the 
wind  bore  down  too  powerfully  for  that.  It 
lashed  the  water  into  ribbons  of  spume,  however. 
He  heard  a  crack  like  a  pistol-shot.  The  canvas 
had  been  ripped  off  one  of  the  life-boats.  For  a 
moment  or  two  it  clung  to  a  davit,  then  whirled 
seaward  like  a  gray  bird  of  evil  omen. 

Strange  thing,  there  was  not  the  least  fear  in 
William's  heart.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  filled 
with  the  wildest  exultation  he  had  ever  known. 
He  longed  to  go  outside,  to  lay  against  that  wind 
and  laugh  and  shout  and  sing. 

Over  the  starboard  bow — for  they  were  going 
into  the  gale  almost  head-on — rose  a  thin  sheet  of 
water,  so  thin  that  William  could  see  through  it. 
It  hung  in  mid-air  for  two  or  three  seconds — a  viper 
seeking  for  something  to  strike — then  smashed 
upon  the  deck.  He  knew  instantly  where  he  had 
heard  that  sound  before — when  they  sent  sheet- 
tin  down  the  cellar  chute  at  the  shop. 

The  shop!  How  unutterably  far  off  that  was! 
Wasn't  that  all  a  piece  of  a  humdrum  dream? 
Could  he  ever  return  and  settle  down  ?  Never  had 
he  felt  so  keenly  and  wonderfully  alive  as  at  this 
moment. 

The  bow  of  the  Ajax  went  down,  down,  down, 
fathoms  down.  From  the  dining-saloon  came  the 
racket  of  crashing  dishes.  The  potted  palm  on 
the  piano  fell  with  a  crash.  William  laughed. 
Then  the  bow  of  the  Ajax  went  up,  up,  up.  He 
had  to  hang  to  the  grip  of  the  port  to  keep -from 
sliding  off  his  perch.  The  ship  did  not  fall  far 

224 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

this  time.  She  struck  a  roller  a  thousand  years 
old,  and  tons  and  tons  of  green  water  rushed  over 
the  deck.  A  forgotten  magazine  swam  about 
frantically  but  hopelessly.  It  fluttered  like  a 
wounded  gull  against  a  boat-block,  then  slumped 
overboard.  William  chuckled.  Inanimate  things 
did  not  have  much  show.  But  a  man,  now!  He 
was  letting  himself  be  carried  along  by  the  ele- 
mental and  irresistible  desire  to  escape  this  stuffy 
cabin  and  to  see  if  he  could  stand  up  under  that 
smashing  wind  and  wave.  To  get  out  there  and 
fight,  to  yell  back  at  that  infernal  bell-like  hum- 
ming! Chinese,  was  it?  Well,  he'd  like  to  show 
the  old  pigtail  that  William  Grogan  was  no  milk- 
sop. 

The  Ajax  began  to  plunge  heavily.  William's 
fancy  had  made  the  ship  a  living  thing,  and  she 
was  fighting.  Each  time  a  great  monster  threat- 
ened to  engulf  her  she  slammed  down  her  steel 
forefoot  and  split  it,  broke  it,  shattered  it. 

"Go  it,  old  girl!  Beat  'em  down,  smash  'em! 
Don't  let  'em  bluff  you ;  soak  it  to  'em !  Tha's  a 
girl!  Show  'em  up!  Tell  'em  you're  from  little 
ol'  New  York,  where  they  have  to  show  you. 
Tha's  a  girl!  Wow!" 

He  had  forgotten  Camden,  he  had  forgotten 
Ruth;  there  was  nothing  left  in  the  world  at  all 
but  himself  and  the  storm.  He  slipped  off  the 
lounge  and  flung  his  hat  to  the  floor;  the  ancient 
Celt  was  sticking  out  all  over  him.  He  staggered 
to  the  port  door.  This  was  in  the  lee,  but  as  he 
opened  it  the  blast  took  away  his  breath.  He  did 

225 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

not  hear  the  steward's  yell  of  warning,  and  he 
wouldn't  have  minded  if  he  had.  It  took  all 
his  strength  —  twofold  in  this  mad  hour  —  to 
shut  the  door.  He  hung  on  to  the  knob  —  he 
had  to. 

"God!  but  this  tastes  good!" 

He  shifted  his  grip  from  the  knob  to  the  hand- 
rail which  ran  around  the  deck-houses  and  began 
to  pull  himself  forward,  all  the  while  ankle-deep 
in  the  back-wash.  The  whole  world  was  green, 
the  sky  and  the  sea,  green  like  emeralds,  green  like 
the  horse-chestnuts  in  the  spring,  and  the  white- 
caps  were  the  blossoms. 

From  all  directions  came  the  crackling  and 
slapping  of  canvas.  The  mysterious  hum  had 
now  deepened.  It  took  William's  memory  back 
to  the  Italian  cathedrals  where  priests  or  choir- 
boys were  eternally  intoning.  There  was  also 
an  under-tone,  but  this  was  due  to  the  vibrating 
wires  and  cables;  the  great  diapason  was  the 
wind  itself. 

Some  chairs  had  broken  loose  from  their  lashing 
on  the  starboard  side,  and  a  tangle  of  sticks  and 
cane  bottoms  swirled  about  at  the  junction  of  the 
cross  and  port  rails,  for  the  deck  was  now  con- 
stantly flooded. 

William  continued  to  pull  himself  along.  He 
turned  the  corner  finally.  The  full  wind  caught 
him  and  slammed  him  violently  against  the  deck- 
house. His  solid  meat  and  bone  were  like  so  much 
straw.  The  impact  knocked  the  breath  out  of 
him,  and  he  clung  to  the  hand-rail,  gasping.  He 

226 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

battled  in  vain  to  turn  his  face  to  windward ;  each 
attempt  left  him  blind  and  breathless.  His 
strength  was  of  paper.  The  swoop  of  the  wind 
sucked  the  air  out  of  his  lungs — zip! — like  that; 
and  he  had  to  bury  his  face  in  the  crook  of  his  arm 
to  get  anything  like  a  full  breath.  He  was  beaten, 
beaten  at  the  start,  and  he  knew  it.  And  yet  he 
laughed.  His  body  was  weak,  yes,  but  God  Him- 
self had  not  loosed  the  wind  that  could  put  fear 
into  the  heart  of  William  Grogan. 

He  slipped  around  again  to  leeward,  where  he 
took  in  deep,  sobbing  breaths.  His  lungs  stung 
as  in  zero  weather  after  a  hard  run  for  a  street-car. 
He  was  drenched,  too.  Forward  there  was  a 
ceaseless  volleying  of  deluges,  and  when  they 
struck  they  hurt. 

"You  win!"  he  cried,  strangling  and  laughing. 
"I  can  lick  my  weight  in  wildcats  and  near- 
champions,  but  I  know  the  real  article  when  I  see 
it.  Zowie!" 

But  he  had  felt  the  tempest  in  the  roots  of  his 
hair,  and  that  was  what  he  had  come  out  for. 
He  was  never  going  to  be  bothered  with  headaches 
again.  If  he  could  get  to  the  rear  of  the  smoke- 
room  there  might  be  a  chance  to  see  what  was 
going  on  without  risking  his  life.  He  made  the 
distance  without  mishap.  Midway  aft  the  deck- 
houses there  was  but  little  wind.  He  shook  him- 
self and  wiped  the  water  out  of  his  eyes.  Once 
more  he  laughed.  Only  an  hour  or  so  back  there 
had  not  been  a  ripple  on  the  oily  swells,  and  now 
all  hell  seemed  broken  loose. 

227 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

After  a  short  rest  he  manoeuvered  around  the 
starboard  end,  into  the  teeth  of  the  storm  again 
.  .  .  and  paused,  doubting  his  eyes. 

A  dozen  feet  away  was  a  woman  in  white.  She 
lay  against  the  deck-house,  wind-driven,  her  arms 
wound  around  the  hand-rail.  Her  tawny  hair 
was  blowing  straight  out  behind  her,  though 
many  strands  of  it  seemed  glued  to  the  white 
panels.  She  had  the  appearance  of  one  of  those 
Italian  bas-reliefs,  for  every  line  of  her  body  was 
drawn  clearly  under  the  soaking,  clinging  linen. 
A  witch,  a  mermaid,  or  a  good  old  Irish  banshee! 
Evidently  she  dared  not  let  go. 

Sea  after  sea  broke  forward.  The  infernal 
mingling  of  titanic  noises — the  snapping  of  canvas, 
the  roaring  ventilators,  the  doors  forward  and  aft 
banging  monotonously,  the  rumbling  of  the  steam, 
the  convulsive  creaking  shudder  of  the  ship  as  the 
screws  flung  themselves  free  of  the  water,  and  the 
immensity  of  that  great,  humming  m-m-m-m. — it 
was  hell  without  brimstone. 

The  only  thing  that  saved  the  girl  from  suffoca- 
tion was  the  projection  of  the  middle  saloon.  This 
broke  the  density  and  volume  of  the  waves. 
Nevertheless,  sheet  after  sheet  slapped  against  her 
body  resoundingly.  She  had  probably  come  out 
for  a  forgotten  book  or  rug,  he  thought.  The 
little  fool! 

"Creep  back,  and  don't  let  go  that  hand-rail! 
Do  just  as  I  tell  you!"  he  yelled;  but  the  gale 
drove  the  words  back  into  his  throat.  The  bellow 
of  a  Cyclops  would  not  have  reached  the  girl's 

228 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

ears  understandingly.  There  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  go  after  her.  He  put  his  free  arm  around 
her.  Then  she  turned.  It  was  Ruth,  and  she  was 
laughing!  "Good  God!" 

The  fear  for  her  safety  turned  him  into  some- 
thing of  a  brute.  That  she  should  dare  risk  her 
life  like  this  in  play!  A  strong  man  had  some 
chance,  but  a  woman  none.  The  rescue — for  no 
doubt  it  was  a  rescue — had  none  of  those  niceties 
which  made  certain  mid- Victorian  chapters  mem- 
orable. William  was  simply  the  caveman,  and 
Ruth  was  his  woman,  and  the  deluge  was  reaching 
out  for  her.  That  he  did  not  take  her  by  the  hair 
was  because  his  grip  on  her  body  was  sufficient. 
He  knew  that  his  strength,  multiplied  many  times 
by  terror  and  rage,  was  equal  to  any  typhoon  that 
ever  came  out  of  the  China  Sea. 

The  wind,  as  if  realizing  that  both  were  about  to 
escape,  redoubled  its  fury,  whirling  the  two  of 
them  around  the  corner  as  easily  as  gutter-winds 
whirl  straws.  Breathless,  half  blinded,  he  lay 
back  against  the  deck-house.  For  a  minute  or 
two  he  was  not  conscious  that  he  he  d  her  in  both 
his  arms,  so  closely,  indeed,  that  one  mold  might 
have  served  for  them  both.  Presently,  despite  the 
fact  that  she  was  drenched,  he  sensed  the  pleasur- 
able animal  warmth  of  her  body  and  the  rapid  rise 
and  fall  of  her  bosom.  Strange  fires  sprang  up  in 
his  heart;  and  one  thought  obliterated  all  others: 
come  what  might  in  after  years,  this  moment 
would  always  be  his. 

His  awakening  from  this  dangerous  dream  was 
229 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

rude.     The  cave-woman  was  beating  him  with  her 
fists,  wild  passion  in  every  stroke. 

"Let  me  go!  I — can't — breathe!  You  are 
hurting  me!" 

He  released  her,  though  he  retained  hold  of  a 
forearm  so  powerfully  that  the  marks  of  his  fingers 
were  visible  for  days. 

The  transition  into  the  caveman  period  had  been 
instantaneous,  but  it  was  not  possible  to  recover 
except  by  slow  degrees.  So  when  he  spoke  to  her 
he  spoke  consistently. 

"Are  you  a  fool?  Didn't  you  know  it  was 
death?  What  in  God's  name  were  you  about?" 

"I  had  to  come!  It  kept  calling  and  calling! 
I  couldn't  help  it!  ...  How  dare  you  call  me  a 
fool?"  she  blazed  out. 

"Well,  if  I  ever  saw  one!" 

"Let  go  my  arm!" 

"Not  until  I  get  you  safe  inside.  You  come 
with  me." 

She  fought  him  all  the  way  around  to  the  smoke- 
room  door.  He  opened  it  and  pushed  her  roughly 
over  the  high  threshold  and  followed. 

"You  have  hurt  me!" 

' '  Sure  I  have.  Hell !  By  rights  you  ought  to  be 
crumpled  up  without  a  whole  bone  in  your  body. 
One  slip,  one  misstep.  .  .  .  Don't  you  know 
anything?" 

"You  have  called  me  a  fool." 

"Uh-huh.  You  go  below  and  change  your 
clothes." 

' '  You  are  insolent ! ' ' 

230 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Anything  you  please.  Do  you  want  me  to 
cany  you?" 

All  the  fury  she  could  crowd  into  her  glance  flew 
to  his  eyes.  But  she  never  spoke  the  words  which 
stormed  at  her  tongue.  Something  was  forming 
in  his  eyes  that  reminded  her  of  the  morning  in 
Venice.  In  another  moment  he  would  pick  her 
up  and  carry  her  down-stairs.  Angry  as  she  was, 
she  had  not  the  courage  to  meet  such  an  event. 

She  flung  her  hair  out  of  her  eyes,  wrung  it, 
made  a  loose  knot  of  it,  turned  and  staggered — for 
her  body,  minus  the  exaltation,  weighed  unutter- 
able tons — into  the  main  saloon.  The  door  banged 
after  her.  She  would  never  forgive  him. 

In  these  tremendous  unforgetable  moments 
both  had  broken  through  the  shell  of  civilization. 
They  were  two  human  beings  possessed  of  little 
more  than  instincts.  A  man  revels  in  the  recur- 
rence of  primordial  instincts.  No  woman  does, 
because  she  is  afraid  of  instincts.  Nature  has 
warned  her  that  these  are  traps. 

Naturally  Ruth  was  first  to  recover  her  poise, 
to  resume  her  shell.  She  was  honest  enough  later 
to  make  allowances  for  his  roughness,  urged  by  his 
terror  for  her  safety.  But  she  could  not  shut  out 
the  feel  of  his  arms.  As  the  shell  closed  over  her 
in  its  entirety  she  was  conscious  of  a  great  depres- 
sion. 

It  was  hours  before  William  crawled  back  into 

his  shell.     He  hated  it;  he  knew  it  for  just  what 

it  was — boundary  lines,  stone  walls,  moats.     He 

had  had  a  taste  of  such  wonderful  freedom  that  he 

16  231 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

never  wanted  to  return  to  the  shell.  He  knew  that 
once  he  had  it  all  buckled  on  again,  he  would  re- 
view his  conduct  through  the  old  microscopic 
lenses,  which  he  did. 

He  had  acted  like  an  abysmal  brute.  He  had 
hurt  her;  and  things  would  never  be  the  same  as 
they  had  been.  But  her  danger  had  driven  him 
wild.  And  always  the  haunting  memory  of  her 
body,  warm  and  palpitating,  against  his.  He 
thought  of  it  as  he  dressed  and  tried  to  stamp  out 
the  thought.  It  was  with  him  in  the  practically 
deserted  dining-saloon,  in  the  smoke-room  later;  it 
followed  him  back  to  his  cabin,  into  his  dreams, 
and  it  was  with  him  in  the  morning  when  the  storm 
was  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Calm  returned;  and  the  two  picked  up  life 
where  they  had  dropped  it  prior  to  the  storm. 
By  tacit  agreement  they  never  referred  to  the 
episode.  Then  they  came  to  Ceylon,  beautiful 
isle  of  spices;  and  the  perverse  little  twist  in  their 
lives  became  forgotten. 

One  afternoon,  after  the  return  from  Kandy, 
William  went  alone  to  the  landing-pier  in  the 
harbor  of  Colombo.  He  saw  the  yacht  Elsa  in 
the  offing. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SO  the  yacht  Elsa  had  turned  up  at  last ?  Wil- 
liam eyed  her  gloomily  and  with  hostile 
speculation.  He  could  not  deny  that  she  was  a 
thing  of  beauty  among  all  the  nondescript  craft 
which  dotted  the  harbor.  How  dingy  the  good  old 
Ajax  looked  in  the  background,  with  her  scarred 
plates,  her  peeling  paint,  her  rusty  anchor  chains! 
Gulls  were  wheeling  circles  around  her;  lighters 
were  thick  under  her  ports;  her  booms  were  busy 
in  the  service  of  commerce.  She  looked  like  a 
great  bumblebee  which  had  fallen  prey  to  an  army 
of  waterbugs.  She  would  be  carrying  tea  all  the 
way  to  San  Francisco.  She  had  a  place  in  the 
world,  this  homely  Ajax;  she  was  serving  man- 
kind honorably.  William  knew  that  he  loved  her. 
To  him  the  ship  had,  since  the  storm,  taken  on  a 
distinct  personality ;  she  was  something  more  than 
teak  and  steel,  something  more  than  an  inanimate 
man-driven  thing. 

And  what  of  the  other,  the  sleek,  handsome 
yacht,  with  her  white  enamel,  her  polished  brass, 
her  dazzling  awnings?  A  plaything,  a  rich  man's 
plaything.  William  was  without  envy;  his  phi- 
losophy accepted  the  fact  that  there  would  always 
be  an  unequal  distribution  of  wealth;  he  had  no 

233 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

socialistic  ideas.  But  he  hated  the  Elsa,  not  be- 
cause she  was  beyond  his  possession  or  represented 
one  of  the  higher  forms  of  luxury :  she  was  a  little 
kingdom  which,  to  a  certain  extent,  was  beyond 
the  reach  of  man's  laws,  ruled  by  a  scoundrel 
whose  lightest  whim,  right  or  wrong,  was  the  only 
law.  He  could  not  help  wondering  how  many 
women  had  cried  their  hearts  out,  too  late,  behind 
those  glistening  ports. 

For  an  hour  or  more  he  watched  the  launch 
which  bobbed  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  He  hoped 
Camden  or  Colburton,  or  both,  would  come  ashore. 
He  would  speak  to  them  civilly;  and  if  they  ac- 
cepted his  warning.  .  .  .  But  would  words  mean 
anything  ?  What  was  he  to  either  but  scum  under- 
foot? They  would  either  lie  easily  or  ignore  him 
and  pass  on.  If  he  fought  them  and  beat  them — 
which  is  what  really  appealed  to  his  present  mood 
— there  would  be  the  infernal  British  law  again. 
Bombay,  Calcutta,  Rangoon,  Singapore,  Hong- 
Kong,  all  British  ports;  he  was  only  a  lone  red- 
headed Irishman,  while  yonder  man  was  a  mil- 
lionaire. It  wouldn't  be  worth  his  while  to  beat 
them  up  and  go  to  jail  for  it  like  a  drunken  sailor. 
He  was  literally  surrounded  by  blind  alleys. 

They  were  following  Ruth.  There  was  nothing 
arguable  about  this  conclusion.  They  had  not 
given  up  the  chase  simply  because  they  had  failed 
to  dispose  of  the  only  guardian  the  girl  had. 
Colburton  was  rich;  he  had  all  the  leisure  in  the 
world;  he  could  abide  his  time. 

William  could  understand  certain  phases  of 
234 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

this  ignoble  pursuit.  But  what  he  could  not 
understand  was  the  persistence  of  it  against  the 
established  fact  that  the  girl  was  unwilling.  He 
could  not  see  where  the  zest  of  the  chase  came  in 
under  these  conditions.  To  pursue  something, 
some  one,  that  loathed  you  and  had  made  it 
patent  to  your  face,  suggested  a  mental  make-up 
wholly  beyond  normal  understanding.  Hadn't 
that  morning  in  Venice  been  conclusive?  What 
more  did  the  man  want?  Yet  there  he  was, 
waiting  patiently  against  the  hour  when  he  might 
safely  strike.  And  how  would  he  strike?  From 
behind,  in  the  dark? 

If  the  girl  was  fool  enough  to  cast  her  lot  with 
a  man  like  Colburton,  why,  there  was  nothing  more 
to  be  said.  You  could  not  argue  with  a  woman 
who  put  clothes  and  good  times  above  her  soul. 
You  wasted  your  breath.  But  when  the  girl  had 
looked  into  the  pit  at  her  feet  and  drawn  back, 
when  she  had  fled  temptation,  fought  and  con- 
quered it,  as  he  knew  Ruth  had.  .  .  .  Well,  it 
was  all  past  his  understanding. 

Without  much  difficulty  he  could  fancy  the 
girl's  state  of  mind.  She  had  failed  in  the  work 
she  loved;  a  little  thing  like  nerves  had  barred 
her  from  fame  and  money.  No  doubt  she  had 
been  desperate;  and  the  devil  always  held  a  Col- 
burton  in  reserve  for  this  moment.  But  the  in- 
nate good  in  her  had  won  out.  He  never  forgot 
the  prayer;  the  memory  of  it  was  always  coming 
back  and  filling  his  throat.  Yet  that  black 
scoundrel  did  not  intend  to  give  her  up ! 

235 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"To  hell  with  the  British  jail!"  William  growled, 
shaking  his  fist  toward  the  yacht.  He  would 
bump  their  heads  together,  come  what  might. 

A  Cingalese  boatman,  his  mouth  and  chin 
spattered  with  the  juice  of  the  betel-nut,  hailed 
William  eagerly. 

"Sahib  wants  boat?" 

' '  No.     Clear  out  and  don't  bother  me !" 

The  Cingalese  grinned  airily  and  moved  on. 

How  long  had  the  Elsa  been  in  the  harbor? 
When  was  she  going  to  haul  up  her  cables?  This 
last  he  must  know  definitely.  Was  Colburton  on 
board  or  ashore?  This  little  puzzle  was  shortly 
straightened  out  for  him.  Three  men  came  on  to 
the  pier.  From  their  talk  William  assumed  that 
they  were  officers  in  mufti.  Servants  trailed 
along  behind,  carrying  huge  kit-bags  and  many 
gun-cases. 

"I  call  this  luck!  To  make  our  station  after  a 
bit  of  good  shooting,  and  to  travel  on  a  gem  of  a 
yacht  like  that!" 

"Colburton  is  a  good  sort,  the  infernal  lucky 
beggar !  Didn't  Chetwynd  kill  two  black  panthers 
up  around  Perak  last  spring?  Ah,  here  comes  the 
launch  for  us.  We'll  be  able  to  pick  up  a  few 
quid  on  the  way.  Colburton  plays  a  rotten  game 
of  bridge,  I  understand." 

Neither  Camden  nor  Colburton  was  aboard  the 
launch.  William  did  not  know  whether  he  was 
relieved  or  sorry. 

"What  yacht  is  that?"  he  asked,  casually,  as 
the  boatswain  made  fast. 

236 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Elsa,  out  of  New  York." 

"Where's  she  bound?" 

"Perak,"  said  the  boatswain,  not  very  civilly.  . 

This  was  welcome  news  to  William.  The  Elsa 
would  be  out  of  the  way  for  at  least  eight  weeks. 
He  could  now  go  through  India  and  Burma  with- 
out looking  over  his  shoulder  every  time  he  passed 
an  alley  after  dark.  What  if  the  man  had  given 
up  the  chase?  What  if  he  had  suddenly  tired  of 
the  game?  No;  a  man  did  not  travel  ten  or 
twelve  thousand  miles  without  having  made  up 
his  mind  rather  definitely.  It  was  a  temporary 
truce;  William  refused  to  deceive  himself.  He 
determined  to  lessen  his  vigilance  in  no  respect. 

He  spoke  to  the  boatswain  again,  prompted  by 
the  desire  to  throw  a  mild  bomb  into  the  enemy's 
camp.  For  the  moment  the  gamin  was  in  the 
ascendant. 

"Say,  you  tell  Mr.  Colburton  that  Mr.  Grogan 
says  he  hopes  the  worst  will  happen.  Ye-ah." 
The  boatswain  stared  at  him  in  open-mouth 
amazement.  "And  you  might  add  that  if  either 
he  or  Mr.  Camden  speaks  to  Miss  Jones  again, 
it  '11  be  a  cot  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  hospital — 
that  is,  if  it  turns  out  to  be  a  doctor's  job  instead 
of  an  undertaker's.  So  long,  Mary!" 

A  gamin,  when  he  shoots  his  verbal  bolt,  tarries 
not  for  reply.  His  victory  depends  upon  the 
last  word.  William  turned  and  marched  away, 
whistling  cheerfully.  Anyhow,  the  jackal  and 
his  master  would  understand  that  the  brindle 
watch-dog  was  loose  in  the  front  yard  o'  nights. 

237 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Then,  too  late,  he  realized  that  his  gamin's 
instincts  had  betrayed  him.  Camden  would  now 
be  on  the  watch  for  him.  There  would  be  no 
catching  him  unaware. 

Next  morning,  when  the  tourists  boarded  the 
Ajax,  William  was  very  glad  to  note  that  the  Elsa 
had  cleared  out  early.  What  sister  Ruth  did  not 
know  she  would  not  worry  about.  Not  only  was 
he  going  to  play  the  watch-dog,  but  he  was  going  to 
play  it  without  her  suspecting  in  the  least.  Only 
the  Cumaean  Sibyl  could  have  picked  a  flaw  in  his 
gaiety  that  morning. 

He  romped  with  the  children  and  played  for 
them,  jested  and  laughed  with  everybody,  from 
the  aloof  missioners  down  to  the  little  girl  who  had 
fallen  in  love  with  the  cliief  officer;  and  all  the 
while  his  Irish  heart  was  heavy  with  a  man's 
burden  in  which  there  were  hopeless  love,  pain,  and 
bewilderment  of  doubt,  since  what  he  really  knew 
of  Ruth's  story  was  based  on  half-truths  and  sup- 
positions. He  did  not  care  what  she  had  done; 
his  faith  in  her  lay  in  what  she  had  not  done. 

And  on  top  of  this,  the  missioner  who  had  con- 
stituted himself  a  committee  of  one  to  regulate  the 
morals  of  the  tourists  sequestered  William  that 
afternoon  and  mildly  remonstrated  with  him  as  to 
his  thoughtless  conduct  in  regard  to  Miss  Jones. 

Whereupon  William  boiled  over.  "This  is  the 
second  time  you've  spoken  to  me  on  this  subject. 
If  you  didn't  wear  that  kind  of  a  collar  and  neck- 
tie I'd  make  that  wrestling-match  between  Esau 
and  the  angel  look  like  a  frame-up !" 

238 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Mr.  Grogan!" 

"Ye-ah.  What's  your  idea  of  a  Christian, 
anyhow?" 

"Mr.  Grogan,  my  intentions — " 

"Sure!  Your  intentions  are  the  best  in  the 
world,  but  you  come  to  me  with  the  idea  that  mine 
aren't.  That's  what  makes  me  kick.  Can't  a  man 
be  decent  and  clean,  to  your  thinking,  without 
crawling  around  on  his  hands  and  knees  all  day 
praying  ?  You've  been  holding  the  club  over  Hot- 
tentots too  long;  you've  lost  track  of  white  men." 

"Never  have  I  heard  such  language!" 

"If  you  hang  around  me,  you'll  hear  worse  'n 
that.  Anyhow,  it's  about  time  you  heard  some 
real  language.  Everybody  seems  afraid  of  you, 
but  I'm  not.  Miss  Jones  came  on  board  unhappy; 
and  it's  none  of  your  business  nor  mine  what  the 
cause  was.  People  who  aren't  happy  naturally 
don't  go  running  around  laughing  and  giggling; 
they  like  to  be  left  alone.  Just  as  the  cobwebs  are 
getting  cleared  up,  you  have  to  come  along  with 
this  kind  of  a  song  and  dance.  She  wanted  some- 
body who  could  laugh  and  talk;  she  wasn't  aching 
to  hear  sermons.  This  ship,  according  to  your 
idea,  is  as  bad  as  the  front  porch  of  a  summer 
hotel.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  everybody  seems  to  be 
enjoying  themselves,  everybody  but  you.  If  they 
put  on  airs  at  first,  they  soon  got  over  it.  They're 
all  human  and  kindly.  I  know  it  because  I  can 
see.  Where  do  you  get  the  noise  that  because 
folks  laugh  frequently  they  must  be  bad?" 

"Mr.  Grogan,  you  misunderstand  me!" 
239 


"The  trouble  with  you  is  you  don't  understand 
yourself.  I  haven't  seen  you  crack  a  smile  since 
we  left  New  York.  The  world  isn't  as  bad  as  all 
that.  Of  course,  Miss  Jones  and  I  sit  at  the  same 
table,  in  the  same  seats  on  trains,  and  go  shopping 
together.  Aren't  we  always  with  the  bunch? 
Where's  the  harm?  There's  other  parsons  on 
board,  and  they  have  a  good  time  like  the  rest  of 
the  folks.  Isn't  Miss  Haines  always  tagging  after 
the  chief  officer?  Have  you  told  her  how  wicked 
that  is?  Aw,  piffle!  Aren't  all  the  young  folks 
paired  off  in  some  innocent  way?  Is  there  any- 
thing unnatural  about  it?  You  need  an  oculist." 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Grogan,  that  you  look  upon 
my  good  offices  in  this  abrupt  manner,"  said  the 
missioner,  with  asperity.  He  rose  from  his  chair. 

"You  ought  to  be  shouting  glad  I  didn't  look  at 
'em  from  another  roost.  I  guess  the  trouble  with 
you  is  you  want  a  scandal.  You're  yearning  for 
one.  You  want  to  save  something  so  bad  that 
you'd  be  glad  if  something  bad  happened.  You'd 
have  started  a  riot  on  the  Ark,  believe  me.  Some 
folks  are  built  that  way.  Anything  good  looks 
suspicious  to  'em.  Gee!  I  wish  my  old  arche- 
ologists  were  back.  They  had  whiter  whiskers 
than  you,  and  they  saw  good  in  everything,  even 
me.  I've  nothing  more  to  say  for  publication," 
William  concluded. 

He  could  see  by  the  expression  on  the  missioner's 
pale  face  that  he  had  turned  an  officious  meddler 
into  a  bitter  enemy;  but  he  did  not  care.  His 
Jeremiade  could  lay  as  it  fell. 

240 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Talking  to  me  like  that!  I  know  what's  the 
trouble  with  him.  He  sees  things  just  the  same  as 
I  do,  but  when  they  get  into  his  head  they  begin 
walking  backward." 

Half  an  hour  later  he  had  forgotten  the  incident. 
The  agile  mind  is  generally  nearer  happiness  than 
the  plodding  one;  and  William  had  the  faculty  of 
leaping  mentally  from  one  object  to  another,  like 
a  chamois.  Ruth  found  him  drawing  pictures  of 
elephants  for  the  children. 

"What  are  you  drawing?"  she  asked. 

"Elephants." 

"Really?"     She  laughed. 

"Sure."  He  extended  a  finished  product.  His 
ideas  of  anatomy  were  certainly  wonderful  to 
behold.  Had  such  an  elephant  existed,  every 
hunter  in  the  world  would  have  been  scouring 
the  jungles. 

"Goodness!  what  is  it?"  she  asked,  holding  the 
drawing  flat,  then  endways,  then  upside  down. 
" Oh,  I  see.  It's  Vesuvius." 

"Aw!  Say,  kids,  what  is  this  picture?"  he 
demanded,  snatching  back  the  drawing. 

' '  Elephunt !"  they  shrieked. 

"There,  smarty!" 

She  sat  down  on  the  deck.  ' '  Let  me  draw  one. ' ' 
The  children  clamored  about  her  shoulders  and 
William  craned  his  neck.  With  a  few  deft  strokes 
a  real  elephant  appeared;  he  had  the  right  kind 
of  ears,  trunk,  wrinkles,  eyes. 

"Oh,  that's  a  real  elephunt!"  cried  one  of  the 
children. 

241 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

And  there's  your  child.  They  don't  want  real 
elephants,  they  want  make-believes,  for  they  live 
in  a  world  of  make-believe. 

"We  like  Uncle  Bill's  elephants,  'cause  they're 
so  high  up!" 

"I  see,"  replied  Ruth,  gravely.  "You  are  all 
cubists.  I  didn't  know  that." 

The  children  seized  the  two  drawings  and  made 
off  to  exhibit  them. 

"You're  as  bad  as  they  are,"  she  laughed. 

"Ain't  they  great?  But  they  like  my  zebra 
best.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  draw  a  donkey  and 
send  him  to  jail." 

"You  are  always  thinking  of  that  elephant." 

"Sure  I  am.  If  I  don't  ride  an  elephant  be- 
tween Bombay  and  Calcutta,  it's  going  to  break 
my  heart.  Ever  since  I  was  five  I've  been  wanting 
to  ride  elephants.  None  of  your  zoo  stuff,  but  the 
real  article,  howdahs  with  masonic  aprons  hanging 
down  the  sides,  and  W.  G.  embroidered  with 
pearls,  like  the  sleight-o'-hand  fakers  use  in  the 
vaudeville.  Great!  And  now  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  a  secret.  I've  ordered  the  biggest,  highest 
elephant  in  Jaipur." 

"What?" 

"Ye-ah.  He'll  be  there  at  the  station  for  us, 
and  we'll  have  him  all  the  way  up  to  Amber  and 
back,  howdah  and  all." 

"William  Grogan,  and  after  all  my  efforts  to 
make  you  save  your  money!" 

' '  'Sh !  Here's  the  joke.  It's  the  state  elephant, 
and  all  it  costs  me  is  five  dollars,  including  the 

242 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

howdah.  It's  first  come,  first  served.  They  told 
me  all  about  it  back  at  Cook's  in  New  York.  And 
they  say  the  elephant's  as  big  as  Jumbo.  You  and 
me  and  some  of  the  kids — huh?  Style?  Believe 
me,  nothing  that  ever  walked  around  Coney  will 
touch  us." 

Ruth  smiled  back  into  his  eyes,  but  she  was 
deep  in  wonder.  It  was  utterly  impossible  to 
associate  this  boy  with  the  caveman  who  had 
dragged  her  off  the  deck  during  the  storm.  The 
terrible  strength  of  him  when  he  was  roused! 
There  were  marks  upon  her  arm  yet.  She  had 
been  as  a  feather  in  his  grasp.  After  all,  it  was 
easy  to  understand  why  the  children  loved  him; 
he  was  a  child  whose  body  alone  had  grown  up. 
His  brain  would  never  develop  much  beyond 
what  it  was.  When  all  this  wonderful  journey  was 
over  he  would  return  to  his  drain-pipes  and  bath- 
tubs, his  cravings  satisfied.  To  have  dreamed  all 
his  life  of  elephants  and  spangled  howdahs! 
If  that  wasn't  pure  boy,  what  was?  He  was  the 
kind  children  ran  to  and  dogs  fawned  over. 

She  sighed.  She,  too,  loved  children.  But 
they  never  put  their  soft  little  arms  around  her 
neck,  because  instinctively  they  sensed  the  repel- 
lence.  She  dared  not  soften  toward  them.  There 
was  nothing  enigmatical  in  this  attitude.  She 
did  not  want  the  hidden  depths  in  her  soul  stirred 
by  the  potent  knowledge  that  never  would  she 
have  children  of  her  own.  -She  had  failed  in 
everything.  And  some  day  this  boy  would  marry 
and  settle  down,  and  there  would  always  be  chil- 

243 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

dren  around  him,  his  children  and  his  children's 
children. 

This  isn't  a  guide-book.  It  is  eight  months  or 
more  in  the  life  of  a  young  man  who  was  vitally 
interested  in  living,  who  was  making  his  boyhood 
dreams  come  true  by  the  sheer  force  of  will.  If 
the  fulfilment  was  not  exactly  in  conformity  with 
the  conception,  that  was  due  to  these  unromantic 
times.  If  I  attempted  to  chronicle  all  the  things 
that  happened  to  him,  along  with  a  complete 
itinerary  of  his  travels,  I  should  require  the  lease 
of  another  ninety-nine  years. 

His  principal  recollections  of  India  were  dung 
fires  at  night,  tigers  (in  cages),  apes,  color,  swarm- 
ing people,  and  temples  which  resembled  his  bed- 
room windows  on  frosty  winter  mornings.  Among 
other  things,  he  arrived  at  that  painful  and  critical 
moment  when  he  must  make  his  choice,  eschew 
hotel  labels  or  buy  new  suit-cases,  there  being  no 
more  room  on  those  he  had. 

As  for  his  dreams,  he  knocked  down  cocoanuts 
by  hand  and  drank  the  milk;  he  picked  tea- 
leaves,  cardamon  seeds,  spices;  he  rode  camels  and 
donkeys;  he  passed  through  the  tail  end  of  a 
typhoon;  and  he  rode  from  Jaipur  to  ancient 
Amber  on  the  state  elephant,  howdah,  spangles, 
and  all. 

In  fact,  he  had  a  Durbar  all  by  himself.  The 
natives,  upon  beholding  the  huge  pachyderm, 
rheumatic  and  disgruntled,  decked  out  in  all  his 
giddy  paraphernalia,  concluded  that  some  inti- 
mate friend  of  the  British  Raj  was  passing,  and 

244 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

forthwith  they  beat  their  foreheads  in  the  dust. 
If  you  should  ask  William,  no  doubt  he  will  tell 
you  that  this  was  the  greatest  moment  in  his  life. 

Great  dramatizations  do  not  always  get  over; 
the  lesson  does  not  always  stick  in  the  mind;  it  is 
often  crowded  aside  by  the  false  importance  of 
some  triviality.  Perversely  the  audience  will 
seize  upon  the  incident,  and  right  away  they  will 
proceed  to  make  the  dramatist  rich,  when  all  he 
wanted  was  to  be  famous. 

The  drama  in  William's  life  was  always  over- 
shadowed by  that  comic  episode  in  Jaipur.  The 
least  thing  stirred  him  into  the  telling  of  it. 

He  did  not  find  his  letter  of  credit  at  Rangoon. 
He  was  shown  a  cable,  ostensibly  written  by  him- 
self in  Aden,  by  which  the  letter  had  been  for- 
warded to  Bombay.  A  wire  to  Bombay  elicited 
the  surprising  fact  that  his  money  was  now  on  its 
way  to  Hong-Kong  as  per  his  further  instructions 
dated  Colombo.  He  knew  that  this  bewildering 
tangle  would  be  due  to  forgeries,  but  this  knowl- 
edge did  not  help  him  solve  his  increasing  financial 
difficulties.  He  cabled  Hong-Kong  the  facts, 
however,  and  ordered  them  to  hold  the  letter  until 
he  called  personally  for  it  with  the  letter  of  identi- 
fication. He  landed  in  Singapore  with  a  little 
less  than  a  hundred  dollars.  But  he  was  confident 
that  this  sum  would  tide  him  over  until  he  reached 
Hong-Kong.  They  were  to  stop  only  three  days 
in  Singapore. 

He  bore  up  cheerfully,  but  none  the  less  he  wor- 
ried in  secret.  Cook's  agents  confessed  that  this 

245 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

was  a  new  game  to  them  and  was  beyond  compre- 
hension, since  the  man  who  was  manipulating 
the  letter's  nomadic  existence  could  not  possibly 
benefit  by  it  financially. 

The  yacht  Elsa  was  not  in  the  harbor  of  Singa- 
pore, and  this  fact  lightened  William's  burden 
somewhat. 

At  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth 
day  the  Ajax  would  sail  for  Hong-Kong  direct,  as 
it  was  proposed  to  spend  considerable  time  in 
China  and  Japan.  Ruth  went  shopping  with  the 
two  spinsters.  She  wanted  a  good  supply  of  those 
delicious  mangosteens.  William,  on  his  part, 
agreed  to  superintend  the  shipping  aboard  of  two 
Canton  grass  lounges. 

Coming  on  board  just  before  sailing,  he  saw  a 
bunch  of  mangosteens  in  her  chair,  and  concluded 
that  she  had  gone  below  to  change.  He  himself 
elected  to  take  a  tubbing  and  don  his  new  pongee 
suit.  But  when  at  dinner-time  Ruth  did  not 
appear,  he  grew  alarmed  and  sought  her  cabin. 
One  of  the  spinsters  answered  his  summons. 

"Where  is  Miss  Jones?"  he  asked. 

"Isn't  she  on  deck?" 

"No.  I  can't  find  her."  He  hesitated.  "Did 
she  come  on  board  with  you?" 

"Why,  no.  She  met  Mr.  Camden,  and  the  two 
went  over  to  the  markets  for  more  fruit.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Grogan,  what  is  the  matter?" 

Deathly  white,  William  suddenly  collapsed 
against  the  door- jamb. 

"She  .  .  .  she  has  been  left  behind!" 
246 


CHAPTER  XX 

'"THAT  night  William  Grogan  went  down  into 
1  hell  and  remained  there  for  ten  days,  every 
hour  of  which  was  a  day  in  itself. 

The  captain  was  dreadfully  sorry,  but  he  could 
not  turn  back.  Once  the  Ajax  set  her  forefoot 
toward  the  open  sea,  she  had  to  go  on.  She  was 
like  fate:  nothing  could  swerve  her  from  her 
course  save  an  act  of  God.  Who  first  laid  down 
this  immutable  sea-law  that  a  ship  must  never 
turn  back?  No  one  seems  to  know.  If  a  fire 
breaks  out  in  the  hold,  they  fight  it ;  they  send  out 
calls  for  help;  but  they  do  not  turn  back,  save  in 
rare  instances;  they  keep  plowing  on. 

"God  knows  I'm  sorry,  lad;  but  we  dropped  our 
pilot  two  hours  back,  and  I  could  not  turn  around 
if  I  wanted  to.  If  what  you  say  is  true,  there's 
only  one  thing  to  do.  Send  a  wireless  to  the 
American  consul-general,  state  all  the  facts,  and 
have  patience." 

"Patience?  My  God!  and  she  left  all  her 
money  with  me!" 

"You  write  the  wireless  and  I'll  sign  it,"  said 
the  captain,  gently.  This  young  chap's  misery 
went  to  his  heart.  "The  consul-general  will 
17  247 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

watch  out  for  her.  She'll  report  there  the  mo- 
ment she  learns  she's  missed  the  boat." 

"Can't  I  make  you  understand?  She's  been 
abducted!  Haven't  I  told  you  the  whole  story?" 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't  turn  back.  Write  your 
wireless.  Tell  the  consul-general  to  notify  the 
police.  If  your  fears  have  any  real  grounds,  the 
police  dragnet  will  bring  out  the  facts.  Keep 
your  head.  Lots  of  people  miss  boats,  and  nothing 
serious  happens.  Besides,  I've  traveled  too  many 
seas  not  to  know  a  gentleman  when  I  see  him. 
You've  misjudged  this  man  Camden." 

"Hell!  didn't  he  fool  me  for  weeks?  Can't  you 
speak  the  first  ship  going  west  and  let  me  tran- 
ship?" William  begged. 

"I  could  do  that;  but  we'll  meet  no  steamer 
going  west.  We'll  make  Hong-Kong  on  Wednes- 
day morning,  though,  and  you  can  pick  up  the 
German-Lloyder  which  is  scheduled  to  leave  that 
same  night.  A  matter  of  ten  days,  and  you'll 
be  in  Singapore  yourself." 

"Ten  days!  She  may  be  dead  or  ...  or 
worse!  My  God,  or  worse!  They'll  be  off  with 
her  in  that  yacht!" 

"Mention  it  in  the  wireless.  Come,  I'll  go  with 
you.  I'll  do  everything  I  humanly  can  for  you, 
except  turn  back." 

"Poor,  love-lorn  devil!"  thought  the  captain. 
The  girl  was  all  right.  Men  weren't  such  fools 
as  to  pursue  in  this  fashion.  Still,  it  was  natural 
that,  being  deeply  in  love,  William  should  imagine 
all  these  horrible  calamities.  The  girl  was  prob- 

248 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

ably  at  this  moment  comfortably  arranging  her 
affairs  at  Raffles,  or  was  at  the  cable  office,  await- 
ing the  message  she  knew  would  come. 

The  long  wireless  was  despatched,  and  around 
nine  o'clock  came  the  reply.  It  stated  briefly 
that  the  consul-general  had  seen  nothing  of  Miss 
Warren  (for  William  had  given  Ruth's  real  name), 
that  there  was  no  yacht  named  Elsa  in  the  harbor, 
that  no  one  by  the  name  of  Colburton  or  Camden 
was  registered  at  any  of  the  hotels,  that  the  police 
machinery  had  been  set  in  motion,  and  that  as 
soon  as  the  consul-general  heard  of  Miss  Warren's 
whereabouts  a  wire  would  be  sent. 

"Can't  you  see  now?"  cried  William.  "She 
hasn't  turned  up;  they  can't  find  her.  I  tell  you 
she's  been  abducted!" 

The  wireless  had  dissipated  a  good  deal  of  the 
captain's  confidence.  "But  white  men!" 

"Haven't  I  been  hammering  at  you  that  only 
their  skins  are  white?  But,  by  Heaven!  they'll 
be  whiter  when  I  meet  up  with  them,  damn  them !" 

"Not  so  loud,  not  so  loud!"  warned  the  cap- 
tain. "Buck  up!  There's  only  one  thing  you 
can  do,  Mr.  Grogan,  and  that's  to  wait.  Make 
up  your  mind  to  that.  And  don't  let  the  ship 
see  how  you  take  it." 

"A  lot  I  care  what  they  think!"  said  William. 

So  he  settled  down  to  wait,  and  joined  that 
body  of  miserables  who  are  individually  desig- 
nated Tantalus  and  Prometheus,  only  it  was  time 
the  gods  dangled  before  his  eyes,  while  the  eagle 
tore  at  his  heart. 

249 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

All  night  William  wandered  up  and  down  the 
decks.  But  for  the  ability  to  ease  the  pressure  by 
sighs,  his  heart  must  have  cracked.  Whether  his 
eyes  were  open  or  closed,  he  could  not  shut  out  the 
infernal  picture.  No  matter  where  he  looked  into 
the  night,  he  saw  her  terrified  face,  he  heard  her 
cries,  saw  her  outstretched  hands.  He  saw  the 
man  laugh  as  she  struggled  in  his  arms,  her  hair 
down,  her  dress  torn  at  the  throat.  .  .  .  She  was 
calling,  and  he  could  not  go  to  her! 

If  only  he  had  warned  her  about  Camden!  He 
had  let  her  walk  straight  into  the  trap.  It  was  all 
his  fault.  He  should  have  told  her;  and  all  the 
time  he  had  believed  he  was  saving  her  needless 
worry !  He  had  lived  straight,  he  had  lived  clean, 
he  had  acted  honorably  all  his  life;  and  yet  God 
could  shoot  this  bolt  into  his  heart,  mercilessly! 
He  could  not  understand  it.  It  wasn't  a  square 
deal. 

Round  and  round  the  deck-houses  he  walked, 
mile  after  mile.  He  was  unconscious  of  time  or 
place.  Every  half-hour  he  visited  the  wireless 
man;  but  there  was  always  the  same  answer  to 
his  inquiries — nothing.  By  and  by  he  began  to 
see  her  as  day  by  day  he  had  seen  her,  his  school- 
teacher! She  was  reading  or  sewing  or  chatting, 
and  once  she  was  lying  in  his  arms,  drenched,  her 
hair  blowing  into  his  face,  her  heart  beating  against 
his.  And  there  she  was,  back  yonder,  calling, 
calling;  and  he  couldn't  go  to  her ! 

Each  step  he  took  said,  "Hurry,  hurry!" 
Would  dawn  never  come?  Hurry,  hurry!  Never 

250 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

had  the  Ajaoc  moved  so  slowly  through  the  water. 
When  the  gray  east  became  suddenly  slashed  with 
crimson  and  gold,  when  the  Oriental  sun  burst 
over  the  horizon,  it  did  not  mean  to  him  that 
another  day  was  come;  it  signified  that  he  was  a 
little  nearer,  just  a  little  nearer. 

He  did  not  sleep  ten  hours  during  the  voyage 
around  to  Hong-Kong.  The  doctor  secretly 
drugged  him,  fearful  that  he  might  develop  brain 
fever.  The  drug  served  to  deaden  his  mind  for  a 
little  while,  but  the  doctor  could  not  get  him  off 
his  feet.  He  walked  without  sense  of  locomotion, 
mechanically,  and,  like  a  sleep-walker,  continually 
bumped  into  passing  objects.  When  he  wasn't 
walking  he  was  bending  over  the  cutwater.  He 
never  saw  the  flying-fish,  the  porpoise,  or  the  bril- 
liant phosphorescence  at  night.  He  saw  only  so 
much  water  being  left  behind. 

Once  a  day  a  wireless  was  received.  It  con- 
sisted invariably  of  two  words — "No  informa- 
tion." 

Of  course  the  gist  of  the  story  became  ship's 
talk;  but  they  were  all  very  kind,  and  they  en- 
couraged him  whenever  they  had  a  chance.  But 
the  kindest  thing  they  did  was  to  leave  him  alone. 
The  children  followed  him  about  dumbly;  he  no 
longer  knew  how  to  play  with  them. 

If  a  woman  mysteriously  disappears,  rarely  is 
she  given  the  benefit  of  a  doubt.  The  majority 
of  those  who  knew  her  are  first  to  dip  into  the 
black  paint.  It  is  not  a  question  of  charity  or 
meanness — simply  that  it  is  human  nature  to 

251 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

judge  and  condemn  whenever  the  defendant  is 
absent  from  court.  Ruth  had  been  carrying  on  a 
secret  intrigue  with  Camden  and  had  run  away 
with  him.  It  was  all  very  simple;  but  nobody 
must  tell  that  poor  distracted  Irishman;  the  only 
kindness  they  could  offer  him  was  to  let  him  find 
out  the  truth  for  himself. 

No  Apache  Indian,  in  his  most  diabolical  frenzy, 
ever  conceived  tortures  equal  to  those  William 
planned  to  mete  out  to  Colburton  and  Camden. 
He  drove  nails  into  their  hands  and  feet ;  crucified 
them;  he  put  out  their  eyes  and  let  them  go;  he 
tied  them  together  and  threw  fangless  cobras  into 
the  room  and  watched  them  go  mad  from  terror; 
he  buried  them  in  the  sand  and  put  food  and  water 
beside  them  and  stayed  by  until  they  died;  he 
drove  them  naked  into  one  of  those  terrible  ant- 
hills; or  he  broke  their  legs  and  arms  with  his  bare 
hands  and  disfigured  them. 

Perhaps  it  was  all  very  horrible  and  primitive, 
but  its  true  significance  might  bear  investigation. 
No  man  is  worthy  the  name  of  manhood  who 
would  not  plan  such  reprisals  under  such  con- 
ditions. There  are  certain  evils  for  which  men  do 
not  go  into  court  for  their  remedies.  Nature  de- 
mands that  they  shall  take  the  law  into  their 
own  hands  and  be  accountable  to  God  alone. 

The  thought  of  burying  his  two  hands  into  the 
flesh  of  those  men  did  much  toward  keeping  Wil- 
liam's mental  balance  from  toppling.  The  doctor 
followed  him  about  a  good  deal,  but  never  at- 
tempted to  calm  or  soothe  him  when  he  burst 

252 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

forth  into  these  frenzied  flights.  The  doctor  was 
wise,  and  he  had  a  fairly  good  idea  of  the  hell 
William  was  passing  through.  The  night  before 
arriving  at  Hong-Kong  he  spoke  decidedly  to  the 
captain,  who  had  gone  over  to  the  majority  with 
his  opinion. 

"On  my  soul,  I  believe  Grogan  has  the  right 
of  it.  I  can  spot  a  good  woman  when  I  see  one. " 

"We  all  believe  we're  able  to  do  that,"  said  the 
captain,  dryly. 

"Well,  you  and  I  have  jogged  up  and  down  these 
seas  long  enough  to  know  that  in  the  East  men  do 
things  they  would  not  dream  of  doing  over  in  the 
West.  There's  something  in  the  damned  lazy, 
good-for-nothing  air  that  puts  a  sag  in  the  moral 
fiber.  Camden,  I  know,  was  a  periodical  cham- 
pagne drunkard.  I  helped  jack  him  up  one 
morning.  You  know  what  booze  does  over  here. 
Well,  I  hope  to  God  the  Irishman  finds  him;  and, 
more  than  that,  I'd  give  a  year's  pay  to  be  sitting 
in  a  front  seat." 

The  captain  smoked  on,  offering  no  comment. 

"The  psychology  of  love  is  the  most  interesting 
thing  I  know  of.  The  lad  has  never  breathed  a 
word  to  the  girl,"  continued  the  doctor.  "Felt 
that  he  wasn't  good  enough  for  her.  Oh,  he's  told 
me  everything  by  degrees.  Used  to  watch  her  go 
past  his  cellar  window,  and  never  saw  her  face  until 
she  came  aboard.  And  he's  going  through  this 
hell  not  because  he  has  any  hope  of  winning  her — 
which  isn't  likely  if  you've  taken  the  trouble  to 
watch  her  as  I  have — but  because  he's  got  to  go 

253 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

through  it.  The  girl's  a  genius  at  the  piano." 
The  captain  nodded.  "Now,  people  who  have 
real  genius  don't  give  a  hang  what  the  neighbors 
say.  If  there  had  been  anything  between  her  and 
Camden,  she'd  have  made  no  bones  about  it. 
She'd  have  taken  her  luggage,  told  Grogan  frank- 
ly, and  walked  off  the  ship.  You  and  the  others 
can  believe  what  you  like;  I'm  for  Grogan 's  way 
of  thinking.  There's  been  a  low  deal  somewhere. 
And  I've  a  feeling  that  the  Irishman  is  going  to 
meet  up  with  the  rogues." 

William  had  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  when  he 
landed  in  Hong-Kong.  The  Ajax's  purser  had 
bought  in  the  remainder  of  William's  ticket.  It 
was  not  obligatory;  it  was  merely  an  act  of  kind- 
ness. There  wasn't  a  man  or  woman  on  board — 
the  meddling  missioner  having  dropped  out  at 
Calcutta — who  wasn't  in  sympathy  with  this 
deep-freckled,  blue-eyed,  red-headed  Irishman, 
and  who  was  not  sorry  to  see  him  depart. 

He  had  his  luggage  and  Ruth's  transhipped  to 
the  German  boat,  which  sailed  for  Singapore  after 
sundown.  He  choked  as  he  saw  the  cheerful 
lights  of  the  Ajaoc  sink  below  the  horizon.  It  was 
possible  that  he  would  never  again  set  eyes  upon 
that  good  old  ship,  and  only  by  the  merest  chance 
would  any  of  the  tourists  cross  his  path  again. 
He  was  all  alone.  And  Ruth  might  be  dead  .  .  . 
or  worse ! 

He  was  traveling  second-class,  and  at  nine  he 
went  down  to  his  stuffy  cabin  astern.  He  sat 
on  the  edge  of  his  bunk  and  fingered  the  Greek 

254 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

hand-bag  he  had  bought  for  Ruth  in  Athens. 
Next  he  laid  out  the  balance  of  his  money;  it  was 
not  much. 

Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  drew  a  hand 
across  his  forehead,  and  sat  down  again,  very  sick 
and  very  limp.  He  had  forgotten  to  go  for  his 
letter  of  credit!  And  no  cable  would  bring  it  to 
him,  since  he  had  given  orders  to  surrender  it  only 
to  himself  in  person.  He  guessed  God  had  really 
forsaken  him.  To  face  he  knew  not  what  labors 
with  less  than  seventy  dollars,  when  every  move 
would  require  money,  and  still  more  money!  He 
had  had  nearly  a  whole  day,  and  like  a  fool  he  had 
wandered  up  and  down  the  water-front  to  pass 
the  time. 

He  did  not  brood  overlong.  The  thing  was 
done,  and  it  was  useless  to  rail  over  his  forgetful- 
ness.  He  was  weak  and  stale.  The  mental 
worry  had  visibly  worn  him  down  in  the  flesh. 
Being  without  money,  he  would  have  to  have  new 
blood.  So  he  set  to  work  methodically,  eating  a 
good  deal  of  meat  and  exercising  faithfully  in  the 
gymnasium. 

He  got  into  Singapore  in  the  morning,  and  went 
at  once  to  the  consulate.  Nothing  had  been  heard 
of  Miss  Warren.  The  yacht  Elsa  had  not  put  in  an 
appearance.  (No  one  had  thought  to  look  for  the 
yacht  over  back  of  the  island,  near  Rharu,  on  the 
mainland.  From  that  point  to  Singapore  was  a 
matter  of  twenty-odd  minutes  by  rail.)  The 
consul-general  was  a  little  skeptical  regarding  Wil- 
liam's tale,  but  he  offered  aH  the  aid  he  had  in 

255 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

his  power.  He  suggested  that  he  personally 
write  Hong-Kong  the  circumstances,  and,  if  that 
did  not  bring  the  letter  of  credit,  to  cable  Leipzig, 
the  home  office  of  the  bankers.  Until  that  ques- 
tion was  settled  definitely  he  would  act  as  banker 
to  Mr.  Grogan  up  to  the  sum  of  two  hundred  dol- 
lars. 

Fortified  in  this  manner,  William  sallied  forth 
blindly.  He  went  to  all  the  hotels  and  questioned 
everybody,  even  the  Chinese  boys,  but  without 
success.  The  spinsters  had  seen  Camden,  so  the 
yacht  must  be  in  hiding  somewhere.  (Neither  he 
nor  the  police  thought  to  extend  their  inquiries  to 
the  officers'  club.)  William  searched  the  bars  and 
billiard-rooms,  still  unsuccessfully.  But  the  gods 
were  pulling  him  out  of  Tartarus  and  the  eagle  was 
about  to  soar  aloft. 

At  half  past  nine  that  first  night  he  went  into 
the  open  cafe  of  Raffles  Hotel  and  saw  Camden, 
seated  before  a  bottle  of  wine.  William  stood 
perfectly  still.  He  wanted  all  vertigo  out  of  his 
head  before  he  acted.  Presently  he  saw  Camden 
take  a  soiled  chamois  bag  from  an  inside  pocket, 
open  the  neck  and  peer  into  it.  William  recog- 
nized that  chamois  bag.  Camden  set  the  bag  on 
the  table  and  tilted  the  champagne-bottle. 

William  walked  over,  swept  the  chamois  bag 
into  his  own  pocket,  and  sat  down. 

The  bottle  slipped  from  Camden's  hand  and 
smashed  upon  the  stone  flooring.  The  wine 
seethed  and  ran  about  his  feet. 

"Camden,  there's  murder  in  me  to-night.  I 
256 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

don't  want  to  kill  you.  Write  down  where  she  is 
and  write  it  straight,  for  if  you  don't  I'll  kill  you. 
There  won't  be  any  jiu-jitsu  to-night.  Write  it 
down."  William  pushed  a  slip  of  paper  and  a 
pencil  across  the  table.  "Give  it  to  me  straight. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  anything  or  anybody  to-night." 

Camden  was  actually  hypnotized.  Slowly  he 
wrote  across  the  face  of  the  slip  of  paper.  Grogan ! 

As  William  reached  for  the  address,  Camden 
awoke  to  the  realization  that  he  had  been  hypno- 
tized. He  picked  up  his  glass,  ostensibly  to  drink; 
instead,  with  a  deft  turn  of  the  wrist  he  dashed  the 
wine  toward  William's  eyes,  hoping  to  retrieve  the 
chamois  bag  and  escape. 

But  William  was  abnormally  alert.  He  antici- 
pated the  movement,  ducked  in  time,  and  before 
Camden 's  arm  had  reached  the  full  stretch  of  the 
treacherous  fling  William  struck.  The  blow  hit 
Camden  squarely  in  the  face,  and  he  crumpled 
up  and  lay  quietly  in  the  puddle  of  wine. 

William  caught  up  the  address.  He  gazed 
about  coolly.  At  one  end  of  the  veranda  were 
some  ladies  and  gentlemen  chatting  over  late 
coffee.  None  of  them  moved;  they  were  obeying 
the  Oriental  axiom — keep  out  of  the  other  man's 
muddle  if  you  can.  William  stirred  Camden  with 
his  foot  and  the  man  rolled  over  on  his  back. 

"I  guess  you  won't  be  pretty  to  look  at  for  a 
long  time  to  come,"  was  William's  sole  comment. 

And  now  for  the  jackal's  master!  He  walked 
hurriedly  toward  the  street.  He  did  not  bother 
to  engage  a  rickshaw.  He  knew  the  way,  even 

257 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

if  a  bit  hazily.  Malay  Street,  where  the  Scarlet 
Woman  plied  her  ancient  business !  Malay  Street ! 
God!  and  they  had  locked  her  up  in  one  of  those 
hell-holes — white  men!  The  street  with  the  big 
numbers  painted  on  Chinese  lanterns! — Malay 
Street !  And  only  a  short  time  before  they  had  all 
driven  through  it  on  a  lark ! 

He  broke  into  a  run,  zigzagging  in  and  out  of  the 
crowds,  up  this  street  and  down  that,  through  the 
quaint  Chinese  quarters,  until  he  finally  came  out 
into  the  sinister  thoroughfare. 

It  required  but  a  moment  or  two  to  locate  the 
house.  If  Camden  had  lied  he  would  go  back  and 
kill  him.  He  rushed  into  the  hallway.  The  front 
doors  are  rarely  locked  in  this  street.  A  gross- 
bodied  woman  opposed  him  with  a  snarl,  demand- 
ing what  he  meant  by  such  conduct.  He  caught 
her  by  the  shoulders  and  swung  her  around 
brutally. 

"Listen  to  me!  What  room  is  she  in,  the 
young  woman  they  forced  in  here  about  ten  days 
ago?  No  lies,  or  I'll  break  your  neck.  Give  me 
the  room!"  He  shook  her  violently.  Her  head 
wabbled  like  a  manikin's. 

*•' Twelve!"  The  word  shot  out  of  her  mouth  in 
a  kind  of  gurgle. 

William  flung  her  against  the  wall  and  sprang 
up  the  stairs.  The  air  was  vile  with  the  smell  of 
cheap  whisky  and  cigarettes.  From  the  parlor 
came  the  pan-like  tinkle  of  a  mechanical  piano. 
He  reached  the  upper  floor  and  stooped  before  the 
first  door.  It  was  number  ten.  Two  doors 

258 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

farther  on  he  stooped  again  and  cautiously  tried 
the  door.  It  was  not  locked.  He  opened  it  and 
stepped  into  the  room  noiselessly. 

He  saw  a  strange  tableau.  Rutn  was  standing 
behind  the  bed,  her  hair  down  as  he  had  seen  those 
dreadful  nights  on  board  the  Ajax.  One  of  her 
sleeves  was  gone,  and  there  were  drab  bruises  on 
the  golden  skin.  Her  lips  were  bleeding  slightly. 
Not  far  from  the  bed  stood  Colburton.  He  had  a 
smile  on  his  face;  it  had  frozen  there.  Down 
both  cheeks  were  livid  welts,  the  marks  of  finger- 
nails. The  girl  had  evidently  given  a  good 
account  of  herself. 

"Has  .  .  .  has  he  hurt  you,  sister?"  asked  Wil- 
liam, his  tongue  hot  and  dry  against  his  palate. 

"Not  very  much.  But  I  think  God  has  sent 
you  .  .  .  along  in  time." 

William  turned  upon  the  man  with  the  frozen 
smile. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

RUTH'S  abduction  had  not  offered  any  great 
obstacles  or  difficulties.  It  required  princi- 
pally a  certain  amount  of  patience,  and  Camden 
could  mark  time  with  any  man.  The  whole 
affair  depended  upon  her  isolation  from  the  alert 
protectorate  of  the  Irishman.  And  when  Cam- 
den's  spy  reported  that  Ruth  had  gone  into  the 
markets  without  William,  he  acted  at  once. 

The  supreme  irony  lay  in  William's  silence  re- 
garding his  discoveries.  Had  he  confided  in 
Ruth,  she  would  not  have  greeted  Camden  as  an 
old  friend  or  stepped  into  the  rickshaw  he  had 
provided  for  her.  That  William  suspected  any- 
thing was  furthest  from  his  thoughts.  For  the 
boatswain,  for  some  reason  known  to  himself,  had 
not  repeated  his  conversation  with  William. 

Thus,  when  the  jackal  approached  Ruth  he  did 
so  confidently,  and  naturally  there  was  nothing 
in  her  attitude  to  disturb  this  confidence.  Indeed, 
she  greeted  him  cordially.  Where  had  he  been? 
How  long  had  he  been  in  Singapore?  And  where 
was  he  going  from  there?  The  Ajax  was  sailing 
in  about  an  hour,  and  she  had  been  hunting  the 
Chinese  markets  for  mangosteens.  She  exhibited 
a  meager  dozen  of  the  luscious  fruit,  each  pendent 

260 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

from  a  long  fiber  thread  much  used  by  the  Chinese 
fruit-sellers. 

"Pshaw!"  said  Camden.  "I  wish  you'd  let 
me  guide  you  into  the  markets  again.  I  know 
where  you  can  get  bushels  of  the  fruit  for  almost 
nothing." 

"How  long  will  it  take?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"A  quarter  of  an  hour  at  the  longest." 

So  Ruth  handed  her  mangosteens  to  the  spin- 
sters, took  Camden's  rickshaw  while  he  engaged 
another,  and  the  two  of  them  wheeled  away. 
Now  Ruth  possessed  a  good  idea  of  locality;  and 
it  presently  occurred  to  her  that  her  rickshaw  boy 
was  not  going  in  the  direction  of  the  markets, 
which  lay  eastward.  She  touched  the  boy  on  the 
shoulder  with  her  sunshade.  Instead  of  turning 
his  head  to  inquire  what  she  wished,  he  broke  into 
the  full  run  which  is  almost  as  fast  as  a  horse 
ordinarily  trots.  He  would  be  able  to  maintain 
this  gait  for  an  hour  or  more.  The  Chinese  in 
Singapore  are  the  sturdiest  in  the  world. 

Ruth  became  alarmed.  The  boy  was  patently 
running  away  with  her.  She  looked  back  to  find 
that  Camden  had  stopped  and  was  arguing  furi- 
ously with  his  boy.  Next  she  saw  him  jump  from 
the  rickshaw  and  run  after  her.  He  stumbled  and 
fell,  and  by  the  time  he  was  on  his  feet  again  there 
was  no  possible  chance  of  his  overtaking  her. 
He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  dusty  road,  appar- 
ently bewildered  and  undecided;  and  this  picture 
was  the  last  she  ever  saw  of  him,  for  her  boy  shot 
up  a  side  street.  All  this  was  very  good  acting 

261 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

on  Camden's  part.  If  the  abduction  turned  out 
abortive,  Ruth  would  retain  the  impression  of  his 
efforts  to  come  to  her  assistance  and  he  would  be 
free  to  act  again. 

Ruth  began  to  beat  the  rickshaw  boy  lustily; 
in  fact,  she  broke  her  sunshade  over  his  head  and 
shoulders  without  obtaining  the  least  satisfaction. 
Not  having  even  a  shadowy  idea  of  what  was 
meant  by  this  peculiar  conduct  of  the  boy,  a  mild 
coma  laid  hold  of  her.  The  reality  became  a 
disordered  dream.  What  was  left  of  the  cover  of 
her  sunshade  flapped  in  the  rushing  wind,  and  the 
broken  ribs  beat  a  thin  tattoo  on  the  thills  of  the 
rickshaw.  She  might  easily  have  slipped  over 
the  back  of  the  vehicle,  but  the  idea  never  occurred 
to  her  until  too  late  to  serve. 

It  was  now  half  after  three,  and  the  Ajax  sailed 
at  four!  Still  she  sat  there  motionless,  staring 
stupidly  at  the  broad,  yellow,  heaving  back  of  the 
Chinaman.  Scarcer  grew  the  houses  and  bunga- 
lows; they  were  leaving  the  town  behind.  Once 
she  saw  a  Sikh  policeman;  but  she  never  thought 
to  raise  her  arms  to  attract  his  attention. 

About  half  an  hour  later  the  boy  stopped  in 
front  of  what  appeared  to  be  a  low  native  tavern. 
It  stood  back  from  the  road  in  the  shade  of  some 
bamboos.  Both  Malays  and  Chinese  were 
grouped  about  on  the  veranda,  some  smoking  and 
others  drinking  tea. 

She  jumped  from  the  rickshaw  and  attempted 
to  run,  but  her  legs  were  too  numb.  The  rickshaw 
boy  laughed  silently,  grasped  her  by  the  arms,  and 

262 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

propelled  her  irresistibly  into  the  tavern,  where  he 
calmly  locked  her  up  in  a  room  whose  walls  were 
lined  with  tousled  bunks,  beside  which  stood  small 
stands  littered  with  the  paraphernalia  of  the 
opium-smoker. 

A  sound,  coming  from  far  off,  cleared  the  stupor 
out  of  her  head.  It  was  the  bassoon-like  whistle  of 
the  Ajax.  She  was  being  left  behind!  She  ran 
to  the  door,  shook  the  knob,  beat  upon  the  panels 
until  her  knuckles  began  to  bleed.  Left  behind! 
What  did  it  mean?  What  could  it  mean?  The 
rickshaw  boy  had  not  taken  her  hand-bag  or  purse. 
He  had  simply  run  away  with  her  and  locked  her 
up.  The  motive  was  not  robbery.  She  groped 
into  a  thousand  channels  for  some  clue  to  this 
amazing  adventure,  but  there  was  no  solution 
anywhere.  She  was  being  left  behind,  and  almost 
penniless.  It  was  maddening! 

Some  time  after  sunset  they  came  for  her,  a  huge 
Chinaman  and  a  slim,  lithe  Malay.  They  robbed 
her  of  her  hand-bag  and  purse.  The  Chinaman 
thrust  his  hand  down  her  neck  and  tore  loose  the 
chamois  bag.  They  then  proceeded  to  bind  her 
hands  behind  her  back.  Cloths  were  tied  over 
her  eyes  and  mouth.  She  submitted  passively; 
she  had  sense  enough  to  appreciate  the  utter  folly 
of  struggling.  The  Chinaman  swung  her  over  his 
shoulder  and  trotted  down-stairs.  Presently  she 
knew  that  she  was  being  put  into  a  closed  carriage. 

She  was  in  a  peculiar  state  of  mind.  She  dared 
not  think;  she  must  let  herself  drift,  drift;  that, 
or  go  mad  with  anxiety.  She  even  tried  to  con- 
18  263 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

vince  herself  that  she  was  acting  in  a  moving- 
picture  drama  of  some  kind.  She  forced  these 
pictures  into  her  thoughts,  and  others;  she  called 
up  reserve  after  reserve,  but  they  were  not  strong 
enough  for  the  onslaughts  of  terror.  What  were 
they  going  to  do  with  her?  Where  were  they 
taking  her?  What  did  it  all  mean? 

The  ride  took  something  more  than  an  hour. 
There  was  at  no  time  any  indication  that  her  cap- 
tors were  in  a  hurry.  The  horse  jogged  along. 
When  the  carriage  came  to  the  final  halt  there 
was  a  wait  of  four  or  five  minutes.  Then  she  felt 
the  muscular  arms  of  the  Chinaman  again.  She 
was  being  carried  into  a  house.  The  air  was 
strong  with  the  stale  smoke  of  Turkish  cigarettes. 

"Take  her  up  to  room  twelve."  It  was  a 
woman's  voice.  "I'll  send  Saki  San  up  with 
food  later." 

A  few  minutes  after  Ruth  was  set  down  and  the 
knots  at  her  wrists  were  loosened.  A  door  closed 
and  a  key  turned  in  the  lock.  She  dragged  her 
hands  free  and  tore  off  the  bandages.  It  was 
dark,  but  she  knew  that  she  was  in  a  bedroom. 

There  were  two  windows,  rear  and  side.  The 
one  in  the  rear  overlooked  a  small  back  yard  in 
the  center  of  which  stood  a  kind  of  outhouse.  A 
Chinaman  was  lounging  in  the  doorway,  smoking 
his  little  metal  pipe.  Behind  him  other  Chinese 
moved  in  a  film  of  blue  vapor. 

The  side  window  was  less  than  six  feet  from  the 
next  house.  She  stared  into  the  velvet  blackness 
>of  the  window  opposite.  Even  as  she  gazed  a 

264 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

match  flared.  Soon  a  candle  flickered  and  re- 
vealed a  woman  in  a  low-necked  dress.  A  dead 
cigarette  hung  pendent  from  her  lips.  A  shadow 
passed  between  her  and  the  light.  The  shadow 
was  a  man.  The  woman  drew  the  shade. 

Ruth  leaned  against  the  casing  of  her  window; 
she  was  sick  with  horror.  She  had  no  illusions 
regarding  yonder  brief  picture.  A  monstrous 
faintness  threatened  her,  but  she  clung  to  her 
senses  desperately.  All  the  strength,  all  the  cun- 
ning and  invention  God  had  given  her  she  would 
need. 

She  took  off  her  hat — a  pith  helmet — and  hid 
the  two  steel  hat-pins  in  the  side  of  her  skirt  where 
she  could  reach  them  handily.  Then  she  sought 
the  door,  but  without  hope.  As  she  expected,  it 
was  locked  on  the  outside.  There  was  no  inside 
bolt.  She  could  not  get  out,  but  any  one  could 
get  in. 

She  returned  to  the  side  window.  By  pressing 
her  cheek  closely  to  the  left  wall  she  was  able  to 
secure  a  glimpse  of  the  street  in  which  the  house 
stood.  Across  the  way  she  saw  a  huge  Chinese 
lantern  swaying  in  the  mild  night  wind.  Upon 
this  lantern  was  a  rudely  painted  number. 

She  heard  footsteps  in  the  hall,  and  she  stepped 
back  behind  the  bed,  into  the  corner.  The  door 
opened  and  a  gross  woman,  with  thick,  dry,  blond 
hair  and  deeply  rouged  cheeks,  entered  with  an 
oil-lamp.  She  peered  around  the  room  until  she 
discovered  Ruth.  Then  she  set  the  lamp  on  a 
stand  in  the  far  corner. 

265 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"Nobody's  going  to  hurt  you,"  said  the  woman, 
indifferently.  "Have  you  any  idea  where  you 
are?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh.  Well,  it's  Malay  Street,  all  right.  Now, 
don't  waste  your  breath  calling  out.  When 
there's  no  tourists  in  town,  the  Sikh  police  don't 
bother  to  watch  us  carefully.  And  if  they  do  hear 
you  they'll  think  it's  the  usual  racket.  If  you're 
sensible  you'll  be  allowed  the  freedom  of  this  bed- 
room. If  you  kick  up,  why,  I'll  have  to  tie  you. 
You  needn't  look  so  scared.  You  won't  see  any 
men,  if  that's  worrying  you." 

"Are  you  an  American?" 

"There's  no  nationality  in  this  business,"  said 
the  woman,  shrugging.  "And  don't  waste  your 
breath  asking  questions.  They  won't  be  an- 
swered." 

"How  .  .  .  how  long  are  you  going  to  keep  me 
here?  I  have  no  money." 

"I  don't  know  how  long.  That  depends  upon 
yott.  When  they  come  for  you  you'll  find  out 
what  you  want  to  know.  I'll  send  food  up  to  you. 
But  no  nonsense.  It  won't  do  you  a  bit  of  good." 

"Do  you  want  money?" 

"You've  just  told  me  you  hadn't  any." 

The  woman  went  out,  shut  the  door,  and  locked 
it.  Ruth  sat  down  on  the  bed,  fingering  the  glass 
heads  of  her  hat-pins.  If  any  one  so  much  as 
touched  her,  she  would  strike  to  kill.  If  only  her 
body  would  cease  its  idiotic  trembling!  .  .  . 
They!  Who  were  they  who  would  come  for  her? 

266 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Her  hell  began  about  the  same  time  as  William's, 
and  there  was  but  little  difference  in  character. 
The  sum  was  terror  and  suspense. 

Not  in  the  slightest  way  did  Ruth  associate 
Camden  with  her  dreadful  plight.  She  was 
positive  that  even  now  he  was  sending  out  alarms. 
Nor  did  Colburton  enter  her  thoughts.  She  had 
reached  the  opinion  that,  sensibly  recognizing  the 
uselessness  of  pursuing  her,  he  had  gone  back  to 
New  York. 

She  had  often  heard  and  read  of  the  moral 
lawlessness  of  white  men  in  the  Far  East.  Some 
vile  scoundrel  had  noticed  her  in  the  streets. 
Well,  she  could  die. 

After  a  while  she  slid  to  her  knees  and  prayed. 

The  prayer  was  interrupted  by  the  door  open- 
ing again.  She  sprang  up  defensively.  But  the 
new-comer  was  only  a  pretty  little  Japanese  girl 
with  a  tray  upon  which  lay  toast,  fruit,  and  tea. 
She  set  the  tray  down  on  the  center-table  and 
courtesied  cheerfully. 

"I  spig  you  lig  English,"  she  said,  which  Ruth 
readily  interpreted  as  "I  speak  English  like  you." 

' '  Do  you  Hke  money  ?"  asked  Ruth. 

"Umhm.     I  lig  make  mo-nee." 

"Will  you  go  to  the  American  consulate  and  tell 
them  Miss  Warren  is  here?  They  will  make  you 
rich." 

The  Japanese  girl  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips  and 
nodded  toward  the  door.  This  gesture  conveyed 
to  Ruth  that  some  one  was  on  guard  outside  in  the 
hall,  the  blond  woman  probably. 

267 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"No  can  do.  She  keel  me  I  spig  outside.  No 
can  do.  I  lig  you.  You  no  same's  oth'  women." 
Saki  San  approached  Ruth  and  inspected  her  with 
that  frank  and  childish  curiosity  of  the  Japanese. 
She  giggled.  "Velly  nice.  I  come  topside  two 
time  day.  Tea?  Coffee?" 

As  Ruth  did  not  answer,  she  bobbed  up  and 
down  several  times.  Then  she  went  to  the  door 
in  that  slipshod  manner  which  is  charming  in  the 
Orient  and  slovenly  elsewhere. 

Ruth  sat  up  in  a  chair  all  night,  and  toward 
morning  she  fell  asleep  from  exhaustion.  So  long 
as  she  remained  a  prisoner  in  this  room  she  was 
determined  not  to  sleep  at  night  or  to  undress. 
She  was  not  wholly  ignorant  of  this  phase  of  life, 
and  resolved  to  steal  what  sleep  she  could  during 
the  day.  There  was  always  something  in  the  news- 
papers; and  she  recalled  that  life  among  these 
outcasts  began  at  sundown  and  ended  at  sunrise. 

The  first  day  was  very  hot  and  very  quiet.  It 
rained  a  little.  It  is  always  raining  a  little  in 
Singapore. 

There  were  combs  and  brushes  on  the  bureau, 
but  she  did  not  touch  them,  much  as  she  longed  to. 

Her  breakfast  consisted  of  eggs,  tea,  and  toast. 
She  was  not  hungry,  but  she  knew  that  only  by 
eating  could  she  keep  her  strength. 

The  little  Japanese  girl,  who  was  really  as  pretty 
as  a  doll,  noticed  the  snarled  and  tumbled  hair  of 
the  prisoner.  When  she  came  in  with  the  evening 
meal  she  carried  a  new  brush  and  comb. 

"These  new.  Chinaman  buy  'em  shop  over 
268 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

town.     Belong  you.     Me  Saki  San.     Me  comb 
hair?" 

Ruth  could  not  help  smiling.  Impulsively  she 
gave  the  brush  and  comb  to  Saki  San  and  sat  down 
in  a  chair.  The  Japanese  girl  fussed  over  her  for 
an  hour,  and  somehow  her  touch  soothed  the  raw 
nerves.  But  Saki  San  would  not  talk.  She  never 
brought  into  this  room  any  of  the  secrets  of  the 
house. 

"You  sleep  night?" 

Ruth  did  not  know  whether  to  say  yes  or  no. 
It  might  be  a  trap.  She  compromised  by  shrug- 
ging. 

"You  sleep  day.  Watch  night.  Maybe  so  no 
man  catch  um  sleep."  Saki  San  did  not  smile  as 
she  offered  this  advice.  "Hon'able  lady  un- 
'stan'?" 

"Yes." 

Saki  San,  which  was  a  nickname,  knew  abso- 
lutely nothing  about  morals.  From  her  point  of 
view  the  life  she  lived  was  proper,  if  arduous.. 
Her  parents  away  off  in  Saki,  Japan,  owed  money 
and  regularly  she  sent  home  half  of  her  eranings.. 
But  instinctively  she  did  know  that  this  strange, 
beautiful  white  woman  saw  things  differently. 

Saki  San  had  known  many  white  women.  They 
cried  a  good  deal  when  alone,  drank  deeply,  used 
all  manner  of  drugs,  and  sometimes  prayed  wildly 
to  a  strange  God  Saki  San  had  never  heard  of  until 
the  white  man  took  her  from  the  segregated  dis- 
trict in  Tokio  and  eventually  left  her  here  in 
Singapore.  For  two  years  now  she  had  been  com- 

269 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

panion  to  these  white  women  who  called  them- 
selves lost.  She  could  not  understand  what  that 
word  meant  unless  it  was  that  they  could  not  find 
their  way  back  home. 

Four  days  dragged  themselves  by.  There  was 
scarce  an  hour  in  which  Ruth  did  not  think  of  her 
Irishman.  Oh,  he  would  not  forsake  her;  he 
would  find  her.  But  he  must  hurry !  hurry !  Her 
whimsical  blue-eyed  Irishman,  tender  and  thought- 
ful and  kind!  What  if  he  did  lack  polish?  His 
mind  was  crystal  and  his  heart  was  gold;  and  he 
wore  his  cynicism  as  a  chestnut  wears  its  mistle- 
toe, a  false  growth  grafted  upon  him  without  his 
leave;  whom  children  loved  and  old  men  grew 
fond  of.  No,  he  would  not  forsake  her. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ONE  afternoon,  toward  dusk — the  fifth  day  of 
her  captivity — Retrospection  seized  her  and 
whirled  her  away  in  his  purple  chariot. 

Retrospection,  who  is  one  of  the  unmentioned 
gods  of  tragedy,  is  never  very  particular  about  his 
backgrounds;  Persian,  Axminster  or  rag  carpet, 
palace  or  hovel,  little  he  cares;  to  him  the  play's 
the  thing.  Upon  this  occasion  he  set  the  disem- 
bodied spirit  of  Ruth  in  a  furnished  room,  neat 
and  comfortable,  one  flight  up,  in  a  genteel 
boarding-house  in  Washington  Square.  The  scene 
would  not  have  impressed  the  adventurous,  con- 
sisting as  it  did  of  a  lone  young  woman  (who  Ruth 
recognized  as  herself)  feverishly  packing  a  suit- 
case. When  she  had  locked  and  strapped  it  she 
sat  down  upon  a  trunk  near  by,  panting  and  di- 
sheveled. Her  figure  was  slender  yet  shapely,  the 
contours  ripe;  there  was  nothing  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary about  it;  indeed,  the  mold  was  common  to 
nine-tenths  of  American  women.  It  was  by  her 
face,  perhaps,  that  one  might  distinguish  her  from 
the  ruck  of  millions,  the  commonplace.  It  was 
not  beautiful,  but  it  was  singularly  attractive. 

She  drew  her  sleeve  across  her  damp  forehead, 
flushed  by  her  exertions,  for  it  was  the  evening  of  a 

271 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

long,  hot  summer  day.  The  pavements  were 
throwing  off  the  heat  they  had  absorbed;  and 
what  little  breeze  came  in  through  the  open  win- 
dows was  tainted  by  the  smell  of  water  and  dust 
and  asphalt,  and  burdened  with  the  thousand 
changeable,  indescribable  sounds  of  mechanisms, 
the  voices  of  a  great  city. 

From  somewhere  came  the  whining,  discordant 
music  of  a  hand-organ;  and  the  young  woman 
knew  that  near  it  happy,  barelegged  children 
were  'dancing.  Children !  There  are  some  words 
which,  when  called  into  being,  seem  instantly  to 
clothe  themselves  with  bristling,  stabbing  points. 
The  young  woman  winced.  She  who  loved 
children,  who  was  peculiarly  familiar  with  the 
bewildering  facets  of  their  budding  characters, 
she  had  forgotten  them.  What  a  horror  she  was 
to  herself ! 

She  flung  up  her  head,  slid  from  the  trunk, 
snatched  her  hat  from  the  bed,  and  put  it  on  with- 
out so  much  as  a  glance  into  the  mirror,  which, 
in  a  young  and  comely  woman,  registers  the  sign 
that  she  is  under  some  great  emotional  strain. 
She  had  made  her  calculations  in  cold  blood; 
there  was  not  even  the  shadow  of  love  in  her  heart. 
Ah,  if  only  love  had  swayed  her,  human  and  beau- 
tiful love,  which  gives  everything  and  asks  for 
nothing ! 

She  crossed  over  to  the  bureau  drawers,  which 
were  all  out,  and  once  again  looked  through  them. 
Then  she  sought  one  of  the  windows  and  leaned 
against  the  casement.  Each  time  she  heard  the 

272 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

ring  of  horse-shoes  upon  the  asphalt  she  peered 
out  eagerly,  only  to  withdraw  her  head  in  disap- 
pointment. 

"Why  does  he  not  hurry?" 

It  was  twenty  minutes  past  seven.  If  she  was 
not  out  of  the  house  before  eight  she  was  as  good  as 
lost.  She  shut  her  hands  tightly  and  her  teeth 
clicked.  There  was  something  in  the  tenseness  of 
her  expression  that  suggested  she  was  throwing 
out  her  will,  taking  up  invisibly  a  whip  and  beating 
the  flanks  of  a  jaded  horse.  A  dray  rumbled  by; 
a  taxicab  sputtered  noisily  under  the  shadowy 
arch;  a  huckster's  cart  rattled  eastward;  and  still 
the  man  did  not  come.  Everything  seemed  to  be 
fighting  against  her. 

A  tap  sounded  upon  the  panel  of  the  door.  She 
wheeled  quickly,  but  remained  where  she  was, 
undecided.  The  tap  came  again,  with  a  little 
more  emphasis.  The  girl  cleared  her  throat. 

"Come  in." 

The  door  opened. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,  Mrs.  Oliver!" 

"Why,  what's  all  this?"  demanded  the  land- 
lady, indicating  the  trunk  and  suit-case  and  the 
denuded  walls. 

"I  am  leaving  in  a  few  minutes.  The  rent  of 
the  piano  has  been  paid  to  date.  They  will  come 
for  it  to-morrow." 

"Leaving?     What  in  the  world  has  happened?" 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  you,  but  I  can't.  I  have 
lived  three  years  in  this  room,  and  you  have  all 
been  very  good  to  me." 

273 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"But  I  don't  understand!  Child,  you  are  all 
alone,  and  I  couldn't  love  you  more  if  you  were 
my  own.  Tell  me  what  has  happened  and  maybe 
I  can  help." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Oliver,  the  only  help  is  what  I 
must  give  myself." 

"You  are  running  away  to  get  married?" 

"Do  I  look  like  it?  No.  I  am  running  away 
from  .  .  .  myself!  Please  don't  ask  me  ques- 
tions. I  should  only  lie  to  you.  My  determina- 
tion is  irrevocable.  Some  day  I'll  come  back  and 
tell  you." 

"You  leave  me  with  grave  and  terrible  doubts," 
said  the  landlady  in  a  troubled  voice. 

"Mrs.  Oliver!" 

"Well,  this  is  life;  this  is  a  big  and  wicked  city; 
I  am  old,  and  I  know.  You  are  young  and  pretty 
and  alone."  The  landlady's  motherhood,  which 
was  as  comprehending  as  it  was  deep,  yearned 
toward  this  girl,  who  had  always  remained  aloof. 
The  brood  she  gathered  under  her  wing  was  com- 
posed of  struggling  artists  and  writers,  but  yonder 
chick  had  been  hatched  from  a  strange  egg. 
"You  can't  tell  me  what  the  trouble  is?" 

"No."  The  girl  turned  quickly  toward  the 
window.  Once  more  came  the  beat  of  iron  shoes. 
A  baggage-cart  stopped  at  the  curb.  "The  man 
for  my  things.  I  thought  he  never  would 
come."  She  walked  toward  the  door.  The  land- 
lady stepped  aside.  The  girl  whirled  unexpectedly 
and  flung  her  arms  around  the  surprised  landlady 
and  kissed  her.  "You  have  been  so  good  to  me! 

274 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Good-by!"  She  flew  out  into  the  hall  and  down 
the  stairs.  "You  will  find  a  trunk  and  suit-case 
up-stairs.  Please  hurry,"  she  said  to  the  cart- 
man,  whom  she  met  coming  up  the  steps. 

"All  right,  miss." 

"I'll  ride  with  you  and  give  you  the  directions." 

The  man  nodded.  Five  minutes  later  he  got 
up  beside  his  passenger  and  flicked  the  horse  with 
a  broken  whip. 

The  girl  looked  up  at  the  window.  She  saw  the 
bulky  figure  of  the  landlady  in  silhouette,  and  a 
hard  lump  came  into  her  throat.  She  had  never 
been  happy  in  that  room,  but  sometimes  she  had 
known  content. 

Beautiful  old  square,  so  brave  in  history,  once 
so  brilliant  in  fashion,  shunted  to  one  side  like  a 
plaything  which  no  longer  amused  the  grown-up 
child  called  New  York.  It  was  only  now,  when 
she  was  going  to  leave  it,  that  she  realized  how 
much  she  loved  every  stone  of  it.  The  electric 
lamps  were  blurred  and  the  blue  lances,  gro- 
tesquely broken,  danced  absurdly.  She  knew 
that  she  was  gazing  through  tears. 

She  focused  her  gaze  upon  the  drooping  head  of 
the  horse,  and  for  a  long  time  refused  to  look  right 
or  left.  Sniffle-shuffle,  sniffle-shuffle  went  the 
iron  shoes.  One  was  loose.  She  could  hear  the 
clink  of  it  each  time  the  animal  lifted  the  hoof. 

"Muggy  weather,"  volunteered  the  cartman. 
"Th'  ol'  nag  'ain't  got  much  gumption  t'night." 

She  did  not  reply.  She  heard  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  but  the  words  fell  meaningless  against  the 

275 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

stone  wall  around  her  thoughts.  She  was  a  weak 
and  contemptible  thing,  no  better  than  the  painted 
woman  in  the  street.  Did  one  inherit  moral  as 
well  as  physical  characteristics?  Were  there  such 
things  as  sixteenths,  thirty-seconds,  sixty-fourths 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation? 
Was  she  merely  a  fractional  reincarnation  of  her 
mother,  who  had  run  away  from  her  father  upon 
the  plea  of  loneliness  and  neglect?  She  had  been 
nine  then;  five  years  later,  beaten,  broken,  dying, 
the  mother  had  returned.  And  this  wasn't  lesson 
enough ! 

Her  father!  She  thought  of  him  with  a  tender 
smile.  The  poor  benign  dreamer,  forever  delving 
into  scientific  research,  in  the  world  but  not  of  it, 
scarcely  realizing  that  his  wife  had  forsaken  him, 
that  he  had  a  child  to  bring  up!  He  had  taken 
back  the  mother  without  a  word  of  reproach,  and 
an  hour  later  the  doctor  had  found  him  puttering 
among  his  retorts.  Loneliness  and  neglect — 
that  had  been  her  mother's  excuse,  and  with  some 
justice.  But  what  excuse  had  she,  her  mother's 
daughter? 

"It  '11  take  half  an  hour,  miss." 

"Don't  hurry  the  poor  horse,"  she  replied, 
mechanically. 

The  cartman  shifted  his  quid  and  spat  surrepti- 
tiously, concluding  that  his  customer  had  been 
turned  out  for  not  paying  her  rent.  It  was  no 
new  story  to  him.  Somebody  was  always  moving, 
because  it  was  cheaper  to  move  than  whack  down 
the  rent.  Well,  it  was  all  grist  to  his  mill;  he 

276 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

had  no  preference.  She  was  pretty ;  and  generally 
it  was  the  pretty  ones  who  moved. 

Two  blocks  farther  on,  before  a  house  in  one 
of  the  numbered  streets,  he  drew  up. 

"Is  this  the  place?" 

"Yes." 

She  climbed  down,  ran  up  the  steps,  and  rang 
the  bell.  The  door  opened  shortly  and  she  van- 
ished into  the  hall.  When  the  cartman  laid  the 
suit-case  on  top  of  the  trunk  he  suggested  that 
he  wouldn't  mind  an  extra  ten  cents  for  beer.  It 
took  "all  th'  water  out  o'  yer  hide,  this  weather." 

He  pocketed  the  tip  and  shuffled  out  of  the 
house,  out  of  her  life,  one  of  those  shadow  shapes 
which  come  and  go  without  leaving  the  slightest 
impression  on  the  memory. 

The  girl  stood  stock-still  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  until  she  heard  the  sniffle-shuffle  of  the  poor 
old  bag  of  bones  that  had  once  been  a  lively  colt 
in  the  green  fields.  Into  her  tragic  thoughts  came 
strangely  the  thought  of  this  horse.  She  had 
already  forgotten  the  master,  but  she  would  always 
remember  the  horse.  It  was  symbolical.  Twenty 
years  hence  she  would  be  like  that,  a  bag  of  bones, 
all  her  spirit  crushed,  gray-haired,  weak  of  eye, 
trembling.  How  distinct  the  dull  portrait  was! 

All  her  life  she  had  been  poor;  always  she  had 
grubbed.  She  had  been  denied  the  right  of  but- 
terflies— to  fly.  Always  they  had  been  in  debt. 
She  had  grown  to  dread  the  door-bell,  for  nine- 
tenths  of  the  callers  had  been  irascible  bill-col- 
lectors, and  the  brunt  of  "shooing"  them  off 

277 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

had  always  fallen  upon  her  young  shoulders. 
Her  father  had  no  idea  where  his  salary  went. 
She  had  cooked  the  meals,  washed  the  dishes, 
kept  the  house  in  order.  The  social  life  of  the 
college  town  had  been  closed  doors  to  her.  The 
boys  had  naturally  sought,  with  the  careless 
cruelty  of  their  kind,  those  girls  who  had  pretty 
dresses,  leisure,  and  who  knew  how  to  dance. 
What  was  it  to  them  that  she  could  play  the 
Second  Symphony  if,  on  the  other  hand,  she  did 
not  know  the  latest  ragtime?  She  was  pretty; 
but  her  hands  were  always  red  from  housework 
and  her  dresses  made-overs.  Only  two  things 
had  she  plucked  from  this  dreary  life — education 
and  music — and  these  haphazardly,  due  primarily 
to  the  kindness  of  the  German  professor  of  music, 
who  loved  the  father  and  understood  the  child. 

And  then  one  day  she  had  been  thrown  upon 
her  own  resources,  unceremoniously,  by  death. 
When  the  little  estate  was  settled  up,  the  trifling 
insurance  paid,  the  furniture  sold,  and  the  debts 
wiped  out,  there  was  for  her  a  meager  nine  hun- 
dred dollars  to  begin  the  real  battle  of  life  with. 

She  hated  the  small  city  where  she  had  known 
nothing  but  penury  and  humiliation,  and  so  went 
to  the  metropolis. 

For  ten  years  she  had  studied  under  the  loving 
care  of  the  old  Bavarian  music-master,  who,  back 
in  Munich,  had  ranked  among  the  greatest  in- 
structors of  his  time.  Finding  himself  too  deeply 
involved  in  political  intrigue,  he  had  stolen  away 
to  America.  He  had  discovered  the  soul  in  Ruth, 

278 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

and  she  became  all  his  ambitions  in  one.  His 
own  peculiar  genius  had  fired  hers,  even  when  she 
was  a  child,  unconscious  of  what  was  stirring 
within.  He  drew  wonderful  pictures  for  her. 
At  the  end  of  the  road  were  wealth  and  fame. 

To  possess  genius  and  yet  to  fail  in  attainment 
because  of  a  trifling  physical  defect  called  nerves! 
She  could  not  play  before  an  audience;  she  could 
not  even  accompany  a  singer  with  any  success. 
Yet,  in  a  manager's  office,  all  the  yearning,  all  the 
poetry  and  romance  in  her  soul,  flooded  her  finger- 
tips. To  hear  the  applause  of  the  multitudes,  to 
walk  and  live  among  the  great,  to  be  indeed  one 
of  them,  to  taste  the  sweetest  fruit  in  life,  real 
success!  In  the  manager's  office,  prior  to  her 
last  and  complete  failure,  she  met  Norton  Col- 
burton. 

Meantime,  during  her  trials,  she  had  tried 
clerkship  in  the  big  shops,  given  music-lessons, 
and  by  qualification  and  the  assistance  of  her 
fathers  late  confreres  she  had  eventually  obtained 
a  post  in  a  public  school,  hating  the  work,  yet 
sticking  to  it  doggedly,  as  it  meant  not  only  finan- 
cial independence,  but  personal  liberty. 

All  these  broken  pictures  passed  through  her 
mind  as  the  shiffle-shuffle  of  the  horse  died  away — 
old,  bent,  gray,  wrinkled,  the  political  mother  of 
an  endless  stream  of  noisy,  restless  children. 
All  these  years  of  drudgery  for  what?  Food, 
clothes,  roof — little  else!  But  what  were  twenty 
or  thirty  years  of  drudgery  if,  among  them,  there 
were  three  or  four  into  which  all  the  luxuries 
19  279 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

of  life  might  be  crowded?    The  devil  always  uses 
this  argument;  it  is  the  best  he  has. 

The  disembodied  spirit  of  the  girl  crept  back  into 
the  sordid  bedroom.  Then  imagination  took  up 
the  thread  where  retrospection  had  laid  it  down. 

She  saw  a  limousine  stop  before  the  house  in 
Washington  Square,  perhaps  twenty  minutes 
after  she  had  left  it.  Out  of  the  car  jumped  a 
man  in  evening  clothes.  A  fine  Panama  gave  a 
rakish  touch  to  his  dark,  handsome  head.  There 
was  eagerness  in  his  step  as  he  hurried  up  to  the 
door  and  rang  the  bell.  His  pose  as  he  waited  re- 
minded one  of  Romeo,  or  Lothario,  or  the  devil  in 
mufti;  it  all  depended  on  whether  one  saw  him 
through  the  eyes  of  a  romantic  young  girl,  a  poor 
young  man,  or  the  shade  of  Virgil.  Under  his 
arm  he  carried  a  long,  narrow  box  such  as  florists 
use.  He  smiled. 

Presently  she  saw  the  landlady  open  the  door. 

"Miss  Warren?" 

"She  is  gone." 

"Gone?" 

"Yes." 

"When  will  she  return?" 

"She  will  not  return.      She  has  left  for  good." 

He  laid  the  flowers  on  the  stand.  "Will  you 
be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  exactly  what  has  hap- 
pened?" 

"I  have  not  the  least  idea.  She  left  twenty 
minutes  ago,  bag  and  baggage.  If  you  will  leave 
your  address  ..." 

280 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"It  would  be  useless,"  he  interrupted,  with 
unexpected  curtness.  "Good  evening!"  He 
opened  the  door  himself  and  went  out  into  the 
street.  "Club!"  he  directed,  entering  the  limou- 
sine and  slamming  the  door. 

All  these  pictures  were  dreadfully  vivid  to 
Ruth.  It  seemed  as  though  she  was  living 
through  every  scene  again,  through  all  the  pain 
and  the  shame  of  it.  She  put  aside  these  recol- 
lections suddenly  and  energetically.  Her  life  was 
in  danger;  she  must  waste  no  vitality  in  useless 
retrospection.  She  looked  out  of  the  rear  window 
of  her  prison.  Always  there  was  a  Chinaman 
in  the  door  of  the  outhouse,  always  covertly 
watching  her  window.  They?  Who  were  they 
who  were  to  come  for  her?  At  ten  that  night 
this  riddle  was  solved. 

Colburton  came  in  quietly  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  door. 

"You?"  she  whispered  across  the  bed  behind 
which  she  had  taken  refuge  at  the  sound  of  the 
turning  key.  For  a  space  the  walls  of  the  room 
warped  fantastically.  As  they  steadied  down  and 
became  normal  again  she  slowly  reached  for  one 
of  her  hatpins.  She  could  die. 

But  Colburton  did  not  approach  her;  he  re- 
mained where  he  was. 

"Weren't  expecting  me,  then?" 

"No.  I  hadn't  thought  you  quite  so  base  as 
this."  The  sight  of  this  man  stiffened  her  spine. 
But  she  determined  to  see  if  there  was  not  some 

281 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

decency  left  in  his  soul.  "Better  let  me  go, 
Norton.  No  good  can  possibly  come  of  this. 
You'll  be  sorry.  There  must  be  some  good  in 
you,  just  enough  not  to  let  you  do  such  a  horrible 
thing  as  this.  To  bring  me  to  such  a  house !  Oh ! 
You  had  better  let  me  go." 

"I  offered  you  marriage  in  Venice,  and  you 
declined  it.  I  was  a  fool,  I  suppose,  but  I  meant 
it  that  morning.  Now  you're  going  to  come  to 
me  of  your  own  free  will." 

' '  No.    You  forget  one  thing. ' ' 

"And  what's  that?" 

' '  I  can  always  die.      Fm  not  your  kind." 

' '  You  are  going  to  be, "  he  said,  quietly.  ' '  Die  ? 
They  always  talk  of  dying,  but  they  don't.  Oh, 
you  need  not  tremble!  I  sha'n't  lay  a  hand  on 
you  until  you  come  to  me.  I  might  have  put  you 
on  board  the  yacht,  but  I  did  not  think  it  would 
pay.  You  had  to  be  broken  first." 

"I  can  not  be  kept  here  forever." 

"I  can  and  will  keep  you  here  until  you  break. 
No  woman  ever  played  your  game  successfully 
with  me." 

She  knew  now  from  his  tone  that  he  was  without 
mercy.  "But  how  many  games  have  you  played 
with  women?  Let  us  speak  the  truth  to  each 
other.  When  I  first  met  you  I  thought  you  might 
inspire  me  with  love." 

He  interrupted.  "And  when  you  learned  that 
I  couldn't,  you  said  good-by,  didn't  you?  Yes, 
let  us  speak  the  truth.  You  thought  it  over  care- 
fully. I  could  feather  your  nest  comfortably. 

282 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

You  took  my  gifts  and  permitted  an  occasional 
caress  to  keep  the  fire  in  me.  .  .  .  Ah,  I  know  all 
about  you,  Ruth.  I  sent  back  to  your  little  col- 
lege town.  I  know  your  pedigree.  You're  cut 
from  the  same  pattern  as  your  mother,  only,  she 
made  a  bargain  and  kept  it.  You  let  me  go  to  the 
extent  of  purchasing  a  certain  kind  of  trousseau. 
You  made  a  bargain,  and  then  you  played  the 
cheat.  Yes,  let  us  speak  the  truth  while  we're 
about  it.  And  then  that  night  at  Juneau's  you 
ran  away  from  me  without  any  explanation." 

"Cheat?  To  a  certain  extent,  yes.  But  do 
you  want  the  real  explanation?  I  will  give  it  to 
you.  When  you  put  my  coat  on  that  night  I  saw 
you  in  the  mirror.  You  smiled  and  winked  at  the 
head-waiter  as  if  I'd  been  a  woman  you  had  just 
picked  up  in  the  street." 

"So  that  was  it!"     Colburton  sensed  chagrin. 

"Yes,  that  was  it.  I  had  up  to  that  moment 
believed  you  really  cared  for  me.  I  was  very  un- 
happy. I  had  failed  in  the  great  object  of  my 
life — I  had  failed  utterly.  I  turned  to  you.  I 
did  not  care  what  became  of  me.  Up  to  the 
moment  I  looked  into  that  mirror  I  was  ready  to 
go  with  you.  I  did  not  love  you,  but  I  might  have. 
I  would  have  kept  to  the  letter  of  my  bargain. 
Well,  in  the  mirror  I  saw  everything.  I  knew 
instantly  the  kind  of  man  you  were.  You  would 
not  have  kept  to  the  letter  of  your  bargain.  And 
a  little  later  I  should  have  been  no  better  than  the 
the  poor  things  who  live  in  these  houses  until 
they  go  to  the  hospitals  to  die.  But  God  did  not 

283 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

intend  that  I  should  go  that  way — be  your  kind." 

"You  will  be  before  you  leave  this  house,"  he 
replied,  moodily. 

"I  can  always  kill  myself." 

"How?" 

She  smiled.  He  did  not  like  that  smile.  He 
was  a  little  afraid  of  her. 

"You  have  only  to  put  your  hand  on  me  to  test 
my  earnestness." 

"You  kept  the  pearls,"  he  said,  a  queer  look 
in  his  eyes. 

"So  I  did.  I  took  them  in  payment  for  that 
smile  of  yours.  Oh,  I  offer  no  excuses  for  what  I 
have  done.  It  'was  all  cold-blooded.  Twenty 
times  I  was  on  the  point  of  sending  back  those 
pearls.  Do  you  think  my  conscience  never 
bothered  me?" 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  I  could  have  had 
you  arrested  for  theft?  You  took  something  of 
which,  at  that  time,  you  had  no  right." 

"Yes;  it  occurred  to  me  that  morning  in 
Venice.  You  were  trying  to  separate  us.  Per- 
haps that  was  your  tale  to  the  carabinieri." 

"Ah!  our  red-headed  friend?    Where  is  he?" 

"He'll  find  me;  never  doubt  that." 

"Will  he?  Will  he  want  to  find  you?  Men 
are  not  friendly  for  nothing." 

"His  kind  are." 

"I'll  break  you,  Ruth.  I  haven't  been  called  a 
hell-rake  for  nothing.  I'll  break  you.  I've  all  the 
time  in  the  world.  You'll  come  to  me ;  wait  and  see. 
And  I  wouldn't  put  any  stake  on  that  Irish  friend. 

284 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

By  this  time  he  believes  you've  eloped  with 
Camden." 

"Camden?"  ' 

"Why,  yes.  Camden's  the  cleverest  man  in 
his  way  I  know.  When  you  ran  away  I  sent  him 
after  you.  I  gave  him  your  photograph.  And 
here  you  are!" 

"Camden!"  she  repeated,  dully. 

"Yes.  Can't  you  see  that  you've  eloped  with 
him?" 

"With  my  luggage  on  board  and  all  my  money 
with  Mr.  Grogan?  Nobody  will  believe  that." 

"Sometimes  women  run  away  without  their 
hats.  You  were  coming  to  me  with  little  else. 
Your  Irishman  will  prove  a  human  being  like  the 
rest.  I  shouldn't  wait  too  long  for  him.  Good 
night." 

Her  hell  now  became  a  definite  one.  Some 
night  he  would  come  in  wine,  and  then  God  help 
her! 

On  the  tenth  night  he  did  come  in  wine.  He 
walked  toward  her  without  parley,  and  she  saw 
what  lay  in  his  eyes.  She  prayed  silently  and 
ran  around  behind  the  bed.  He  ran  after  her, 
laughing.  She  drew  out  a  hatpin  and  struck  at 
him  blindly.  It  bit  deeply  into  his  arm,  but  he 
was  too  deep  in  wine  to  feel  the  pain.  He  caught 
her  by  the  wrist  and  wrenched  the  pin  from  her 
grasp,  and  tossed  it  out  of  the  window.  The 
second  hatpin  was  not  long  in  following 

She  fought  him  like  a  tigress.  She  buried  her 
teeth  in  his  hand,  scratched  and  kicked  him.  She 

285 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

fought  with  all  the  weapons  she  had,  as  all  women 
fight  when  their  honor  is  at  stake.  And  it  was 
her  honor.  Finally  he  succeeded  in  getting  her 
in  his  arms.  He  kissed  her  so  roughly  that  her 
lips  bled.  He  then  jumped  back  beyond  the  bed, 
still  laughing. 

It  was  here  that  William  came  in,  haggard  but 
bright-eyed. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AFTER  William  had  spoken  to  Ruth  there  was  a 
/A.  second  tableau  which  lasted  about  two  minutes. 
The  girl  was  holding  herself  up  by  the  last  shred 
of  her  will.  Now  that  the  danger  was  over,  now 
that  the  horrible  hours  of  suspense  were  done  with, 
it  seemed  as  though  every  nerve  in  her  body  had 
gone  slack,  like  violin  strings  suddenly  touched 
by  night  dampness.  He  had  come!  All  along 
she  had  known  that  he  would  come.  The  con- 
fidence which  this  prescience  had  instilled  in  her 
heart  had  stood  like  a  rock  between  her  and  self- 
destruction.  "Call  to  me,  and  I'll  come."  He 
had  said  that. 

The  smile  on  Colburton's  face  slowly  faded. 
His  mind,  fuddled  by  wine  and  dizzied  by  the 
fury  of  the  recent  struggle,  refused  to  accept  as  a 
reality  the  advent  of  this  Irishman.  It  was  not 
humanly  possible  for  him  to  be  in  this  room,  to 
arrive  at  this  precise  moment.  Colburton  made  a 
slight  gesture,  as  if  to  dismiss  the  apparition. 

Then  William  moved.  He  walked  backward 
to  the  door,  found  the  key,  transferred  it  to  the 
inside,  and  turned  it.  A  hysterical  sob  rose  and 
died  in  Ruth's  throat.  She  had  never  thought  of 
running  to  the  door  while  struggling  with  Colbur- 

287 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

ton.  She  saw  William  drop  the  key  into  a  pocket. 
There  was  nothing  hasty  about  his  movements; 
all  was  deliberately  done ;  and  this  very  deliberate- 
ness  held  the  other  man  in  thraldom. 

"I've  got  something  here  that  belongs  to  you." 

With  an  unexpected  gesture  William  flung  the 
chamois  bag  into  Colburton's  face.  The  thread 
snapped;  the  pearls  cascaded  to  the  floor  and 
bounded  and  ran  about. 

William  drew  off  his  coat  and  flung  it  aside ;  and 
then  Colburton  knew  that  what  he  saw  was  made 
of  solids.  Trapped! 

"Don't  .  .  .  don't  kill  him!"  whispered  Ruth. 
She  could  not  stand  any  more  horrors. 

"Kill  him?  Not  much!  But  I'm  going  to  put 
the  fear  of  God  in  his  heart,  believe  me.  ..." 

"Look  out!"  she  warned. 

William  laughed  as  he  leaped  forward.  Col- 
burton  succeeded  in  drawing  the  automatic, 
but  not  in  leveling  it.  William  gripped  Colbur- 
ton's wrist  and  shook  it.  The  weapon  fell  near 
the  bed. 

"Pick  that  up,  sister;  it  may  come  in  handy 
later." 

Ruth  laid  the  automatic  on  the  bed. 

"Well,  Handsome-Is,  we  meet  again.  You  call 
yourself  a  white  man!" 

William  struck,  not  with  the  fist,  but  with  the 
palm.  A  clenched  hand,  used  with  the  same  force, 
would  have  knocked  Colburton  down.  He  was  a 
rogue,  but  he  was  not  a  physical  coward  as  is 
usual  with  men  in  his  breed.  But  he  knew  that 

288 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

for  once  he  would  need  the  strength  of  ten  men 
and  the  cunning  of  a  were-wolf . 

"Millions,  huh?  Call  on  them,  white  man!" 
snarled  William. 

Instinctively  Colburton  knew  what  those  palms 
promised  in  the  way  of  torture.  Nothing  stings 
like  the  flat  of  the  human  hand.  A  blow  of  the 
fist  numbs  and  bruises,  but  the  palm  crucifies  the 
nerves,  keeps  them  alive  and  dancing  with  pain. 

It  was  a  singular  combat,  Colburton  smashing 
out  blindly  and  hopelessly,  and  William  using 
only  his  palms.  They  were  terrible  buffets. 
Bare  knuckles  would  have  been  merciful  in  com- 
parison. Thwack!  thwack!  across  the  eyes,  the 
mouth,  the  nose,  the  cheeks,  and  the  side  of  the 
head,  all  stinging  like  hell  fire.  Some  of  Colbur- 
ton's  wild  blows  got  home,  but  so  savage  was  Wil- 
liam's mood  that  he  scarcely  felt  them.  His  eyes 
were  like  polar  ice;  his  cruelty  was  feline.  Into 
this  corner  and  that  Colburton  stumbled,  soon 
half -blind,  cursing  and  sobbing.  Duck  and  dodge 
as  he  would  he  could  not  escape  those  palms.  He 
flung  chairs  at  William's  feet;  he  tipped  over  the 
table  and  the  supper- tray ;  he  picked  up  and  threw 
small  objects,  more  or  less  accurately.  One  of 
these,  a  little  bronze  god  for  incense  sticks,  struck 
William  on  the  forehead,  laying  it  open.  But 
none  of  these  efforts  served.  The  blows  kept 
falling.  To  the  girl  the  impact  of  those  plams  was 
like  pistol-shots. 

There  was  another  sound;  only  the  girl  heard 
it — the  snap  of  the  pearls  as  the  scuffling  boots 

289 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

crunched  them  into  powder.  Her  subsequent  act 
had  no  meaning;  she  was  not  conscious  of  it. 
She  stooped  and  gathered  those  pearls  which  had 
rolled  to  her  feet,  all  the  while  her  direct  gaze 
never  leaving  the  two  men.  She  stood  up,  the 
pearls  clutched  tightly  in  her  hand. 

In  Udaipur  she  had  seen  a  spectacular  battle 
between  an  enormous  tiger  and  a  leopard  which 
had  accidentally  strayed  into  the  tiger's  den. 
To  her  mind,  shocked  from  its  balance  by  the 
happenings  of  this  night,  William  began  to  assume 
the  shape  of  that  tiger,  and  Colburton  became  the 
leopard.  Presently  she  cried  out.  She  could 
not  stand  the  sight  or  sound  any  longer. 

"Don't!  don't!"  she  begged.     "Let  him  go!" 

Mercy  ?  How  like  a  woman  that  was !  William 
heard  the  call  and  understood.  She  wanted 
mercy  for  the  man,  now  that  he  was  reeling  about, 
beaten.  Mercy?  Had  Colburton  ever  shown 
any?  Did  he  know  what  the  word  meant ?  How 
many  women  had  begged  mercy  hopelessly  at  the 
feet  of  this  man?  And  so  William  began  to  strike 
for  them.  His  hands  were  red  and  beginning  to 
swell. 

"God!  loll  me,  kill  me!"  sobbed  the  wretch. 

' '  The  door !"  Ruth  screamed.  ' '  They  are  break- 
ing in  the  door !"  She  saw  the  panels  warp. 

William  drew  back  for  the  real  finishing  blow, 
when  Colburton  stumbled,  struck  his  temple 
against  the  marble  top  of  the  bureau,  and  crumpled 
up. 

At  the  same  moment  the  door  crashed  inward 
290 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

and  five  husky  Chinamen  crowded  over  the  thresh- 
old. With  a  deep  sense  of  chagrin  William 
understood  that  in  his  pitiless  vengeance  he  had 
overreached.  Five!  Their  thick,  yellow  torsos 
were  naked. 

With  a  Herculean  effort  William  stooped  and 
picked  up  the  insensible  victim  and  hoisted  him 
to  the  front  as  a  bulwark.  He  did  not  wait. 
He  was  a  true  fighting-man,  and  he  knew  from 
experience  that  generally  the  first  blow  decided  a 
rough-and-tumble  conflict.  He  rushed  Colbur- 
ton's  body  straight  toward  the  Orientals,  who 
stopped,  not  knowing  how  to  handle  such  a  ma- 
nceuver.  William  heaved  the  body  forward  as 
from  a  catapult.  The  yellow  men  were  bowled 
about  like  tenpins.  One  made  a  frantic  endeavor 
to  catch  Colburton;  but  he  lost  his  footing  and 
both  he  and  his  burden  crashed  against  the 
banister,  which  gave.  There  was  a  wild  yell, 
and  the  two  bodies  disappeared. 

The  remaining  four,  recovering  quickly,  rushed 
forward.  Had  they  been  Japs  William  would 
have  gone  out  broken  or  dead.  But  the  Chinese 
are  not  athletes,  they  are  not  natural  fighters. 
They  do  well  enough  in  numbers  if  armed;  but 
they  possess  an  inherent  distaste  for  the  white 
man's  methods  of  using  his  fists. 

William  never  missed  a  point  in  this  game  of 
fists  and  wits.  He  fought  with  his  head  quite  as 
much  as  with  his  hands.  They  call  that  general- 
ship in  the  ring.  He  had  stamina,  skill,  and 
brains.  No  doubt,  had  he  taken  up  the  sport  as  a 

291 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

business  instead  of  a  pastime,  he  would  have  found 
a  distinguished  niche  in  the  sporting  pages  of  the 
newspapers.  But  he  fought  for  the  fun  of  it 
when  necessity  did  not  compel  him  to  fight  other- 
wise. 

William  mapped  out  his  campaign  without  an 
instant's  hesitation.  He  had  played  the  fool  with 
Colburton;  he  had  forgotten  where  he  was  or 
that  the  man  would  have  henchmen  somewhere 
about  the  house.  Moreover,  he  was  tired,  and  he 
could  not  close  his  puffed  hands  as  tightly  as  he 
would  have  liked.  He  must  keep  the  yellow  devils 
in  front,  near  the  door,  where  he  could  see  them 
all.  If  one  succeeded  in  getting  in  the  rear,  out 
of  range,  that  would  be  the  wind-up.  Sticking 
to  his  tactics  of  carrying  the  fight  to  the  enemy, 
he  ran  to  meet  the  onrush,  crying  out  his  final 
advice  to  Ruth. 

"When  I  got  'em  outside,  be  ready  to  shove  the 
bed  against  the  door.  If  I  fall,  shoot  to  kill !" 

"Dear  God!"  cried  Ruth.  She  couldn't  help 
him;  she  had  all  she  could  do  to  stand  and  she 
hardly  knew  which  end  of  the  automatic  was  the 
death-dealing  one. 

As  the  battle  against  odds  began,  she  recalled 
in  a  flash  that  curious  desire  of  hers,  one  day  in 
Naples,  to  see  this  Irishman  fighting  with  his  bare 
fists  for  his  life.  From  her  vantage  on  the  far 
side  of  the  bed  she  watched  this  incredible  contest. 
She  was  in  the  grip  of  a  trance.  It  was  not  pos- 
sible to  stir.  She  was  conscious  of  being  able  to 
breathe  with  difficulty — that  was  all.  One  hand 

292 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

held  the  automatic,  the  other  still  clutched  the 
pearls. 

The  shock  of  the  bodies,  the  panting,  the  shaking 
of  the  floor — it  was  like  a  scene  transposed  from 
the  Iliad.  The  oil-lamp  (which  had  in  the  pre- 
vious battle  escaped  miraculously)  contributed  a 
weird  theatricality  to  the  movement  of  the 
struggling  group,  throwing  it  here  into  dead, 
black  shadow,  there  into  flashes  of  yellow-white. 

And  all  for  her!  She  had  dreamed  of  such 
moments,  but  life  itself  had  been  singularly  free 
of  thrills.  Men  had  fought  for  her  in  her  day- 
dreams, sometimes  with  rapier,  sometimes  with 
lance,  sometimes  with  musket  at  the  cabin's  loop- 
holes, and  just  as  the  last  shot  had  sped  they  had 
heard  the  bugle  of  the  cavalry.  It  was  very 
pleasant  to  dream  like  that.  But  this !  .  .  . 

He  was  like  a  madman;  he  was  here,  there, 
everywhere,  unexpectedly,  jabbing,  swinging, 
heaving.  Frequently  there  was  a  screech  of  rip- 
ping cloth.  His  shirt  was  hanging  on  his  shoul- 
ders in  shreds  and  streamers.  It  was  impossible 
to  follow  his  arms  clearly;  all  she  could  identify 
was  that  shock  of  red  hair  surging  among  the 
swinging  pigtails. 

All  at  once  he  tripped  and  went  down,  and  she 
was  sure  that  the  end  had  come.  But  no !  There 
he  was,  like  a  swimmer  caught  and  buried  for  a 
second  by  a  toppling  surge.  This  time  he  broke 
away  from  the  milling,  yellow  bodies.  He 
clutched  the  teak  stand,  heavy  and  tough,  and 
swung  it  high  above  his  head. 

293 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

The  yellow  men  paused;  and  well  they  might. 
They  had  been  sent  against  a  man;  but  yonder 
blue-eyed  was  not  a  man,  he  was  a  half-god,  for 
all  his  bloody  face,  for  all  his  tatters.  They  had 
had  enough.  As  William  whirled  the  stand  and 
let  go,  they  broke  and  made  for  the  hallway. 
William  slammed  the  door  and  leaned  against  it. 

"The  bed!"  he  cried,  thickly. 

How  she  was  able  to  push  it  against  the  door 
was  something  she  never  could  explain.  The 
instant  this  feat  was  accomplished  she  fell  upon 
the  bed  in  a  faint.  William  did  not  turn  to  her 
at  once.  He  hauled  the  bureau  over  to  the  foot 
of  the  bed  and  stood  it  endways.  To  open  the 
door  now  they  would  have  to  push  out  the  side  of 
the  house. 

He  then  turned  to  Ruth.  Her  arms  lay  ex- 
tended on  each  side.  The  pearls  had  run  into  the 
depression  made  by  the  hand  which  had  held 
them.  Pearls!  His  expression  became  grim  and 
sad.  She  had  picked  them  up  while  he  had  fought 
for  her  liberty  and  honor.  He  was  seized  with  a 
violent  desire  to  go  about  the  room  and  crush  all 
the  pearls  he  could  find,  stamp  and  twist  his  heel 
upon  them.  Instead,  he  rubbed  her  wrists 
energetically.  After  a  little  while  she  opened 
her  eyes. 

"All  right  now,  sister?"  He  was  breathing 
deep  and  fast.  He  bolstered  her  up  with  the 
pillows,  and  she  smiled  wanly.  "Gee!  if  I'd  only 
had  one  of  those  Ajax  beefsteaks  under  my  vest, 
I'd  have  cleaned  'em  up  in  jig-time.  Some  little 

294 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

scrap,  though,  believe  me — some  .  .  .  little  .  .  . 
scrap!" 

He  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  held  his  head  in 
his  hands.  He  was  groggy  and  a  bit  sick  at  his 
stomach.  He  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since 
morning.  One  of  his  small  ribs  hurt  badly;  an 
eye  was  closed;  his  tongue  found  a  loose  tooth. 
It  they  had  come  at  him  once  again  and  the  teak 
stand  had  failed  to  stop  them!  .  .  . 

The  next  thing  he  knew  she  was  standing  at  his 
side,  one  arm  around  his  head,  and  a  cool  towel 
was  being  tenderly  applied  to  his  burning,  throb- 
bing face. 

"I  wasn't  worth  it!"  he  heard  her  say.  "I 
wasn't  worth  it!" 

He  looked  up. 

"Aw,  sister!  It's  all  over.  That  rat  '11  never 
bother  you  again." 

"That  isn't  it."  And  then  she  told  him  the 
whole  sordid  story. 

It  was  not  a  very  coherent  tale,  but  he  under- 
stood. To  him  there  was  nothing  sordid  in  it. 
It  was  human,  every-day  temptation. 

"Aw,  what  are  you  worrying  about?  Don't  we 
all  stumble  around  most  of  the  time?  Aren't  we 
all  good  and  bad  in  spots?  Sure.  Some  time  or 
other  everybody  gets  the  idea  that  the  easy 
route's  the  only  one  left.  The  thing  is  to  get  back 
in  time.  You  did  that." 

She  tied  the  towel  around  his  forehead  and 
stepped  off  a  little  way. 

He  was  as  broad  in  the  mind  as  he  was  in  the 

20  295 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

shoulders.  He  continued.  "Why  shouldn't  you 
want  good  things  to  wear,  clothes  and  all  that? 
Don't  we  all  want  something  just  a  little  better 
than  we've  got?  Sure.  And  then,  you'd  gone 
through  a  pretty  tough  disappointment.  You 
had  musical  genius,  and  you  couldn't  make  it  lie 
down  and  roll  over.  That  'd  make  any  one  kind  of 
desperate.  You  ran  into  that  skunk  the  wrong 
time — that  was  all.  He  was  handsome,  he  had 
money,  and  he  was  smooth.  Being  a  genius, 
you've  got  one  of  those  consciences  that  was  worse 
'n  none  at  all.  Always  sticking  pins  in  you — 
huh?  No  human  being  ever  lived  that  didn't 
think  bad  once  in  a  while.  But  thinking  and 
doing  's  two  different  things.  It's  stepping  back 
that  brings  home  the  bacon;  and  you  .  .  . 
stepped  back.  Say,  do  you  know  what  to-night 
is?"  He  smiled.  It  was  the  smile  of  a  gargoyle. 

"No.  I've  forgotten  to  keep  track  of  the 
days." 

"Well,  it's  little  old  Christmas  Eve,  and  I'm 
as  homesick  as  ...  as  hell!  Can't  you  see  the 
good  old  clean  snow  coming  down,  and  the  Salva- 
tion Army  Santy  Claus  hopping  about  to  keep 
his  feet  warm  and  watching  the  nickels  and  dimes 
dropping  into  his  kettle?  Huh?  And  the  kids 
with  their  little  red  smellers  pasted  against  the 
toy-shop  windows?  'I  choose  that!'  Can't  you 
hear  'em  arguing?  Aw,  little  old  New  York  on 
Christmas  Eve!" 

"Don't."  Her  throat  filled  suddenly,  and  she 
was  very  close  to  a  passionate  storm  of  tears. 

296 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

It  would  have  been  well  for  her  if  she  had  cried 
abandonedly. 

"To-morrow  we're  going  to  have  the  greatest 
Christmas  spread  they  can  turn  out  at  Raffles's 
And  after  that  we're  going  to  see  how  fast  we  can 
get  back  to  those  two  chairs  behind  the  deck- 
houses. The  old  Afax — huh?  I  could  have  cried 
when  I  had  to  leave  her  at  Hong-Kong." 

"Why  did  you  come  back  for  me?"  The  ques- 
tion came  involuntarily. 

"You  want  to  know?"  He  looked  down  at  his 
swollen  hands.  "Well,  because  I  love  you,  not 
like  a  brother,  but  like  a  man  who  loves  one  woman 
once  in  his  life.  I  know.  I'm  not  exactly  your 
kind.  I  grew  up  among  the  rough-necks,  maybe. 
My  education's  a  joke.  But  I'll  tell  you  this 
much:  if  they'd  dragged  you  down  to  hell  before 
I  got  here,  I'd  Ve  gone  down  into  hell  and 
dragged  you  back.  You're  a  good  woman. 
What's  one  mistake?  .  .  .  Will  you  marry  me?" 

He  dared  not  look  at  her.  He  continued  to 
stare  at  his  hands.  The  towel,  drawn  a  bit  too 
tightly,  dripped  water  which  trickled  down  the 
end  of  his  nose. 

Who  shall  say  that  these  were  not  the  first 
honest  words  of  love  ever  spoken  in  this  drab 
house  of  bondage?  This  thought  came  into  the 
girl's  mind  as  she  gazed  down  at  his  head.  She 
was  dreadfully  tired.  .  .  .  Some  one  to  take  care 
of  her,  some  one  who  loved  her  to  stand  between 
her  and  all  future  buffets,  to  wait  upon  her  and  to 
serve  her.  Why  not?  She  felt  that  all  her  for- 

297 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

tresses  had  been  smashed;   there  was  not  a  single 
barrier;  there  was  neither  dream  nor  illusion  left. 

There  was  a  long  interval  of  silence. 

"I  ...  I  will  marry  you,"  she  said. 

I  have  remarked  that  William  was  fine  in  the 
grain,  and  that  the  harsh  environments  of  his 
earlier  years  had  not  in  any  way  coarsened  that 
grain.  All  he  did  was  to  reach  out,  take  her  hand 
in  his,  and  pat  it.  The  most  natural  act  in  the 
world  would  have  been  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and 
kiss  her.  He  merely  patted  her  hand.  Why? 
Because  he  knew  that  Ruth  did  not  love  him. 
Later  you  will  understand  the  supreme  sacrifice 
he  had  in  mind  when  he  made  that  proposal. 

"All  right,  sister.  We'll  hunt  up  the  parson 
to-morrow.  But  just  now  suppose  we  think  up 
some  way  of  getting  out  of  this  shebang  ?  Where's 
your  sleeve?" 

She  found  it  by  the  window. 

"Got  any  pins?  We'll  have  to  patch  up  a  bit; 
can't  go  into  the  streets  like  this." 

She  plucked  some  pins  from  the  cushion  on  the 
bureau.  As  he  touched  the  cool  flesh  of  her  arm 
he  trembled.  He  was  going  to  fight  a  battle  be- 
side which  the  recent  one  was  as  nothing.  Would 
he  be  strong  enough  to  win  it?  Maybe,  with 
God's  help.  After  the  sleeve  had  been  pinned  on 
he  got  his  coat. 

"Where's  the  revolver?  Here  it  is,  on  the  bed. 
Gee!  but  I'm  a  hick  with  these  things.  I  couldn't 
hit  the  broadside  of  an  elephant.  But  they  won't 
know  that." 

298 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

He  turned  the  automatic  over  and  over  in  his 
hands,  curiously.  But  he  was  a  natural  mechanic, 
and  it  wasn't  long  before  he  had  mastered  the 
mechanism  of  the  gun. 

"All  aboard!" 

"The  pearls,"  she  said,  dully. 

"What?"  He  stared  at  her,  dumfounded.  It 
was  unbelievable.  "You  want  them  .  .  .  now?" 

"To  return  them.  Oh,  I  couldn't  live  other- 
wise! I  couldn't!" 

He  understood  at  once.  She  wanted  a  clean 
slate. 

"But  Camden  stole  them." 

"So  did  I.  I  had  no  right  to  them.  I  tried  a 
thousand  times  to  convince  myself  that  I  had; 
but  I  really  hadn't.  I  was  just  a  cheat.  I  ...  I 
hadn't  paid  for  them." 

"How  many  did  you  have?" 

' '  There  were  forty-eight  in  all.  I  unstrung  them. 
I  was  going  to  sell  one  whenever  I  needed  money." 

"All  right." 

William  crawled  about  on  his  hands  and  knees 
and  eventually  recovered  thirty-two.  The  others 
were  little  white  patches  of  dust  on  the  thread- 
bare carpet. 

"How  much  were  they  worth?"  he  asked, 
curiously. 

"Twelve  thousand,  at  least.  I  priced  a  neck- 
lace like  it,  and  they  said  it  was  worth  that." 

A  doctor  would  have  given  her  a  serious  glance; 
but  William  was  at  this  moment  unobservant. 
Little  beads  like  that  worth  twelve  thousand ! 

299 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"That's  a  lot  of  money.  Let's  see;  sixteen 
missing;  something  over  four  thousand.  All 
right;  a  clean  slate  it  is.  We'll  match  'em  up  and 
send  'em  back.  And  now  let's  get  out  of  this." 

He  pushed  aside  the  bureau  and  bed  and  opened 
the  door  cautiously.  The  hallway  was  deserted. 
He  beckoned  to  her  to  go  on  ahead.  They  went 
down  the  stairs  quietly,  pausing  every  other  step 
to  listen.  As  they  reached  the  lower  hall  the 
door  to  the  parlor  opened  about  three  inches. 
Instantly  he  leveled  the  automatic. 

' '  No,  no !"  cried  Ruth.  ' '  It's  the  little  Japanese 
girl  who  was  kind  to  me." 

"G'by!"  said  Saki  San,  her  almond-shaped 
eyelids  as  nearly  round  as  they  possibly  could  be. 
"Madame  say  you  go  damn  fast  velly  well. 
G'by!"  The  door  closed. 

William  and  Ruth  stepped  out  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AvID  so  they  were  married.  No  more  romance, 
nothing  but  realities  from  now  on;  and  some 
of  these  realities  bitter  and  sad,  and  some  of  them 
touched  with  incomparable  glory.  No  life  moves 
forever  on  one  level,  no  life  is  so  drab  that  happi- 
ness does  not  pierce  it  somewhere,  somehow. 

Christmas,  with  a  sky  of  faded  blue  and  burning 
brass;  dust,  heat,  enervation.  Clouds  came  up 
quickly,  there  was  the  usual  downpour  of  luke- 
warm rain;  then  more  heat,  more  dust,  more 
glare.  To  William  it  was  an  unbelievable  Christ- 
mas. He  saw  not  a  single  face  in  which  the  spirit 
of  this  day  was  manifest.  .  .  .  Snow  blowing  into 
his  face  with  cold  freshness;  snow  under  his  feet, 
sparkling  on  his  coat,  covering  the  trees  in  the 
park  with  fleecy  mantles;  cold,  wind-driven  snow; 
never  had  he  been  so  homesick  as  on  this,  his 
wedding-day. 

Two  rings,  a  small  diamond  and  a  plain  gold 
band,  took  all  but  eighteen  dollars  of  his  small 
store.  But  Ruth  had  a  few  hundred,  and  he 
could  borrow  from  her  until  either  they  sent  him 
his  letter  of  credit  or  he  went  to  Hong-Kong  for  it. 
So  there  was  no  financial  worry  in  his  mind.  He 
knew  that  the  diamond  was  a  bit  of  sentimental 

301 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

foolishness,  but  he  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion. 

They  were  married  at  two  o'clock,  at  the  Ameri- 
can mission.  Never  had  the  missioner  officiated 
at  a  stranger  wedding.  In  the  first  place,  there 
was  something  in  the  bride's  eyes  that  baffled  him. 
They  were  more  like  the  eyes  of  a  person  in  a 
trance.  The  girl  looked  not  at  objects,  but 
through  them.  And  the  man  appeared  to  be  all 
hands  and  feet;  he  could  not  move  without  blun- 
dering into  something;  and  he  spoke  as  if  he  was 
afraid  of  the  sound  of  his  voice.  Besides,  one  of 
his  eyes  was  discolored,  his  lips  were  bruised,  a 
piece  of  court-plaster  stretched  diagonally  across 
his  forehead.  The  missioner  decided  that  this  was 
a  plain  case  of  mismating.  The  girl  had  beauty 
and  breeding;  the  man  had  neither,  though  none 
could  doubt  the  frank  honesty  of  his  blue  eyes. 

In  other  latitudes  the  missioner  would  have  in- 
sisted upon  knowing  a  little  more  of  the  family 
history,  and  in  the  event  of  their  refusing  to  ac- 
quaint him  with  the  facts  which  inclined  them  tow- 
ard matrimony  would  have  politely  declined  to 
act.  But  this  was  the  Orient,  a  world  where 
laxity  disintegrated  vigor,  where  all  the  mysteri- 
ous kinks  in  human  nature  developed  quickly  and 
became  the  salients  in  character. 

He  took  William  aside,  however,  and  asked  him 
if  the  young  lady  was,  or  had  been,  ill. 

"111?  Why,  no.  But  she's  been  through  a  lot 
of  worry.  She'll  be  all  right  when  things  settle 
down  again." 

302 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

"Do  you  wish  to  marry  this  man?  Are  you 
acting  of  your  own  free  will?"  asked  the  missioner, 
as  a  final  attempt  to  get  at  the  truth. 

Ruth  stared  out  of  the  window  at  the  patch  of 
brilliant  sunshine  in  the  middle  of  the  red  dust  of 
the  compound.  The  pause  was  so  long  that  the 
missioner  began  to  fidget,  and  William's  freckles 
grew  deeper  and  deeper  in  hue.  Why  didn't  she 
answer? 

"Ruth?" 

' '  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !  Yes,  I  wish  to  marry 
Mr.  Grogan." 

With  a  sigh  the  missioner  opened  his  book  to 
the  marriage  ritual.  Ruth  spoke  her  affirmatives 
in  a  colorless  tone.  William  had  to  clear  his 
throat  a  dozen  times. 

"Now,"  said  the  missioner,  smiling,  after  the 
gold  band  had  been  clumsily  slipped  over  Ruth's 
finger,  "we  are  all  Americans.  Why  not  have 
your  Christmas  dinner  with  us?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ruth;  "but  we  have 
planned  to  have  our  dinner  at  the  Raffles." 
She  wanted  no  curious  strangers  about.  Her 
head  was  on  fire,  and  she  wanted  to  be  alone, 
alone. 

William's  face  expressed  his  disappointment. 
Strangers  would  have  been  most  welcome  to  him. 
Now  that  the  ceremony  was  over,  a  fear  laid  hold 
of  him.  Had  he  done  right?  Ought  he  not  to 
have  waited  until  Ruth  had  had  a  few  days' 
rest? 

"You'd  better  watch  her,"  whispered  the  mis- 
303 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

sioner  as  he  escorted  this  strange  pair  to  the  door. 
"I  don't  know  what  her  worry  is,  but  it  strikes 
me  that  she  is  going  to  be  ill." 

"111?" 

"Yes." 

The  missioner  was  now  positive  that  the  girl 
was  not  fully  aware  of  the  step  she  had  taken. 
Confused  and  troubled,  he  let  them  go  out  into 
the  compound  before  he  recalled  that  he  had  not 
blessed  them.  He  ran  after,  waving  his  hands. 
William's  thought  was  that  he  had  innocently 
given  the  missioner  some  bad  money. 

"I  forgot  to  bless  you,  you  poor  children!" 

William  bent  his  head,  but  Ruth  stared  straight 
on. 

Their  dinner  at  Raffles's  was  sadder  even  than 
the  wedding.  Neither  could  eat;  neither  could 
talk;  neither  of  them  heard  the  cheerful  Chinese 
table-boy  repeat  his  "Melly  Clistmus!" 

William  thought  he  understood  what  was  going 
on  in  Ruth's  mind.  She  was  reviewing  her  life, 
her  failures,  and  this  final  smash  of  all  her  woman's 
dreams.  He  knew.  The  man  she  had  picked  out 
in  fancy  did  not  in  the  least  resemble  William 
Grogan.  He  had  not  meant  anything  wrong;  yet 
it  was  now  evident  that  he  had  committed  a 
crime — he  had  taken  advantage  of  her  helpless- 
ness, he  had  not  given  her  a  chance  to  recover 
her  balance. 

The  more  closely  he  looked  into  his  act,  the 
more  reprehensible  it  became.  Marriage!  God 
help  him,  he  saw  clearly  enough  now  that  what 

304 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

in  his  generosity  he  had  intended  doing  might 
have  been  done  without  tragedy.  He  had  wrecked 
her  future  without  benefiting  his  own  in  the  least. 
He  was  a  thousand  times  a  fool.  He  no  longer 
kept  up  the  farce  of  self-deception;  he  had  hoped 
that  some  day  she  might  learn  to  care  for  him. 
Blind,  unhappy  fool!  She  would  now  hate  him 
until  the  end  of  her  days. 

Ruth  broke  in  upon  these  melancholy  cogita- 
tions. "My  head  aches  very  badly.  You  won't 
mind  if  I  go  to  my  room?" 

"Good  Lord,  no!" 

He  went  with  her  to  the  room  he  had  engaged 
for  her. 

"Where  .  .  .  where  is  your  room?" 

So  she  was  worrying  about  that?  "On  the 
other  side,"  he  lied.  "All  your  things  are  here. 
Now,  sister,  you  lie  down  and  take  it  easy.  I'll 
drop  in  around  about  six.  And  maybe  a  rickshaw 
ride  along  the  water-front  '11  brace  you  up." 

At  six  he  returned  to  find  her  delirious.  She 
did  not  recognize  him.  Terrified,  he  ran  down  to 
the  office  and  asked  for  a  doctor.  When  the  doctor 
came  he  reported  that  it  was  a  case  of  brain  fever. 

"Will  she  die?" 

"That  depends.  Plenty  of  ice-packs,  a  good 
nurse,  proper  care,  and  there's  a  chance  for  her. 
She  looks  as  if  she  had  natural  vitality.  Your 
wife?" 

"Yes."  Brain  fever!  God  was  already  begin- 
ning his  punishment. 

"I  take  it,  Mr.  Grogan,  that  you're  a  tourist,  so 
305 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

I'll  see  to  the  nurse  and  order  the  ice  myself.  It's 
a  good  thing  it's  winter.  I'll  have  a  punka  rigged 
up  for  the  daytime.  Until  I  return  you  will 
apply  cold  compresses;  that  is,  wet  the  towel 
frequently  and  lay  it  upon  her  head.  Don't  be 
afraid  if  it  drips." 

"How  long  will  it  last?" 

"If  it's  a  slight  attack,  two  or  three  weeks;  if  it 
is  serious,  a  month  or  more.  It  depends  upon  the 
severity  of  the  congestion — what  kind  of  mental 
trouble  brought  it  on.  But  don't  get  worried; 
just  keep  saying  to  yourself  that  she's  going  to 
pull  through,  and  she  will." 

All  through  the  long  night  William  sat  by  the 
bed.  Sometimes  he  cracked  the  artificial  ice  for 
the  nurse,  or  he  put  Ruth's  threshing  arms  under 
the  coverlet,  or  he  stood  listening  to  her  incoherent 
babble,  hoping  in  vain  to  hear  his  own  name.  It 
was  of  a  past  he  knew  but  little — the  days  with 
her  father. 

"Go  to  bed,  Mr.  Grogan,"  advised  the  nurse 
when  three  o'clock  came  around.  "You  need 
sleep,  lots  of  it,  if  you're  going  to  help  me.  You'll 
have  to  do  something  in  watching  during  the  day, 
until  the  crisis  is  past." 

William  had  not  engaged  any  room  for  himself 
at  the  hotel.  His  idea  had  been  to  seek  out  some 
near-by  boarding-house.  He  wanted  to  leave 
Ruth  with  a  sense  of  absolute  freedom.  She  alone 
was  registered,  and  only  as  Miss  Warren.  In 
other  parts  of  the  world  this  would  have  com- 
plicated affairs,  but  not  in  Singapore. 

306 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Dumbly  he  went  down  to  the  outside  cafe  and 
sat  in  one  of  the  wicker  chairs.  He  fell  asleep  al- 
most immediately.  He  was  aroused  at  dawn  by 
the  Chinese  scrubs. 

Up-stairs  there  was  no  change.  The  nurse  slept 
on  a  cot  in  the  veranda,  while  William  watched  and 
changed  the  ice-packs  until  nine.  The  nurse  then 
relieved  him. 

He  began  to  conside  his  finances.  He  had 
thirty-six  rupees — about  twelve  dollars.  Ruth's 
checks  would  be  so  much  waste  paper  until  she 
could  properly  indorse  them.  If  she  died  .  .  . 
No;  God  wouldn't  do  that !  And  he  had  believed 
that  trip  to  Hong-Kong  and  return  the  worst 
hell  that  could  be  meted  out  to  him.  He  had 
only  stepped  into  the  anteroom.  Twelve  dollars! 
His  only  hope  lay  in  the  promise  of  the  consul- 
general. 

He  went  back  to  the  annex  of  the  hotel,  where 
the  offices  of  the  American  consulate  were  located, 
and  asked  to  see  the  consul-general. 

"He  is  away,"  said  the  clerk. 

"When  will  he  be  back?" 

"I  can't  say.  In  a  week,  maybe;  he  may  stay 
a  fortnight.  The  Sultan  of  Johore  is  giving  a 
hunting  party.  The  consul-general  left  rather 
unexpectedly  last  night.  But  there  is  seldom  any- 
thing of  importance  going  on  in  Singapore  at  this 
time  of  the  year." 

"Seldom  anything  of  importance!"  repeated 
William,  sitting  down  because  a  strange  attack 
at  his  knees  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  stand. 

307 


"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

''I  don't  know.  My  wife  is  in  the  hotel,  down 
with  brain  fever.  I  have  about  twelve  dollars. 
My  letter  of  credit  is  in  Hong-Kong,  and  I  can't 
get  it  until  the  consul-general  backs  up  my 
identity." 

"Give  me  all  the  details  and  I'll  see  what  can  be 
done.  It  will  be  impossible  to  reach  the  chief  by 
telegraph.  They  go  miles  up  north  into  the 
jungles." 

William  gave  the  clerk  the  essential  details,  and 
to  verify  these  the  clerk  inspected  the  chief's 
desk  calendar:  "Memo.  Write  Cook  Hong- 
Kong  relative  W.  Grogan's  letter  of  credit."  The 
clerk  was  glad  to  run  across  this  memorandum ;  it 
gave  some  color  to  the  story. 

"I'm  afraid  he  went  away  without  sending 
that  letter.  A  cable  would  do  no  earthly  good 
in  a  case  like  this.  By  this  time  Cook's  people 
must  be  up  in  the  air,  and  the  consulate  seal 
would  be  necessary  before  they  would  surrender 
the  letter.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  have  no  authority 
to  act." 

' '  I  don't  care  about  myself.  If  I  was  sure  every- 
thing would  be  all  right  with  her,  I  could  manage 
to  shift  somehow." 

The  clerk  chewed  the  end  of  his  lead-pencil. 
He  did  not  know  how  to  act.  Not  a  day  passed 
that  some  clever  rogue  did  not  try  to  put  through 
a  bit  of  fraud.  He  himself  had  been  imposed  upon 
several  times,  and  the  word  "money"  sent  him 
back  into  his  shell.  Yet  this  chap  had  the  identi- 

308 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

fication-book  representing  the  ownership  of  six 
hundred  pounds,  and  the  chief  himself  had  made  a 
memorandum  on  his  calendar. 

"I'll  tell  you  what.  Stick  to  the  hotel.  They 
won't  bother  you  with  any  bill  for  a  couple  of 
weeks,  and  by  that  time  the  chief  will  be  home. 
Frankly,  in  this  half-way  port  you  don't  trust 
everybody.  There's  a  lot  of  strange  driftwood 
floating  around,  and  we  have  our  eyes  open.  I've 
been  stung  a  dozen  times.  You  stick  to  the  hotel. 
If  they  come  to  you  with  any  bill  before  the  chief 
returns,  hunt  me  up  and  I'll  try  to  explain  to  the 
management." 

"That's  pretty  white." 

"You're  welcome.  Over  here  about  all  we  do 
is  to  straighten  out  financial  tangles  for  tourists — 
and  they  are  always  losing  money  and  trunks; 
ship  broken  sailors  back  home;  and  play  charity 
generally,  and  no  thanks.  Anyhow,  I'll  take  a 
chance.  Drop  in  once  in  a  while  and  let  me  know 
how  things  work  out." 

"Sounds  pretty  good  to  hear  some  one  talk 
United  States.  Thanks." 

William  returned  to  the  office  of  the  hotel  and 
engaged  the  cheapest  room  he  could  find.  On  the 
morrow  he  would  look  around  for  a  job — that  is, 
if  Ruth  were  no  worse. 

From  eleven  until  three  he  stood  his  watch 
while  the  nurse  slept.  Man  and  wife,  he  mused; 
the  yellow-bird  wedded  to  the  crow.  What 
would  she  do,  how  would  she  act,  when  she  came 
back  from  this  no-land  where  fevered  fancies  go? 

309 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Maybe  she'd  forgive  him  when  she  understood 
everything. 

The  doctor  called.  The  temperature  had  not 
gone  any  higher,  and  this  was  an  encouraging 
sign.  Bravely  William  laid  bare  his  financial 
predicament.  No  matter  what  happened,  he  was 
not  going  to  sail  under  false  colors.  The  doctor 
told  him  to  put  such  worries  into  the  background, 
or  there'd  be  two  patients  instead  of  one. 

"There's  a  lot  of  white  men  in  this  world,  after 
all." 

"I'll  wager,"  replied  the  doctor,  putting  away 
his  thermometer.  "When  you're  in  trouble  you 
find  out  where  they  are.  To-night  or  to-morrow 
night  we'll  come  to  the  crisis.  You  see,  every 
case  of  brain  fever  is  individual.  No  two  per- 
sons are  affected  exactly  alike.  If  the  fever 
goes  no  higher  by  to-morrow  night,  then  we 
can  breathe  easier.  It  may  hang  right  where 
it  is  for  a  long  time,  or  it  may  recede  at  once. 
You  never  can  tell.  To-night  and  to-morrow 
night  I'll  take  turns  with  the  nurse,  and  you 
can  sleep.  If  a  serious  turn  comes,  I'll  send  for 
you.  She's  quieter  now." 

Ruth's  left  arm  lay  outside  the  coverlet.  Wil- 
liam laid  his  hand  upon  the  forearm.  It  was  dry 
and  hot.  He  raised  it  gently  to  put  it  back  under 
the  coverlet,  when  the  two  rings  caught  his  eye. 
The  sight  of  them  gave  birth  to  a  Quixotic  idea. 
Slowly  he  slipped  off  the  rings  and  dropped  them 
into  a  pocket.  When  she  came  to  her  senses  his 
act  would  at  least  save  her  the  shock  of  immediate 

310 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

recollection.  She  need  never  know  until  she  was 
strong  enough. 

The  next  day,  his  heart  big  with  misery,  Will- 
iam went  forth  in  search  of  a  job.  He  was  ob- 
sessed with  the  idea  that  he  must  find  some  way  to 
make  money.  It  was  all  right  for  the  doctor  and 
the  nurse  to  trust  him,  but  sooner  or  later  he  must 
have  money.  There  was  always  the  possibility 
of  the  consul-general  getting  killed  on  that  hunting 
expedition.  And  then  where  would  he  be? 

First  he  sought  the  few  plumbing  establish- 
ments. They  thought  he  was  joking  at  first,  and 
laughed  pleasantly;  but  when  he  declared  his 
seriousness  they  informed  him  that  there  was  no 
chance  for  any  but  the  native.  No  white  man 
could  work  for  the  native  wage.  Then  he  tried 
the  hardware-shops  and  ship-chandlers — natives. 
It  was  not  pride  on  William's  part ;  he  would  have 
dug  trenches  with  the  devil  himself  if  there  had 
been  a  white  man's  wage  in  it.  His  idea  was  to  get 
enough  ready  cash  to  cable  Burns.  He  dared  not 
ask  the  doctor  to  lend  him  money.  The  man 
might  turn  about  and  refuse  to  trust  him  further. 
And  the  clerk  at  the  consulate  had  hinted  that  he 
could  not  afford  to  lend  anything  except  his  good 
will,  and  William  was  grateful  enough  for  even 
that.  He  must  find  a  white  man's  wage  for  a  week 
or  so.  Must. 

He  returned  to  the  hotel  at  noon.    Ruth's 

condition    was    unchanged.    He    remained    two 

hours  at  the  bedside,  then  renewed  his  quest  for 

work.    At  five  he  found  himself  on  one  of  the 

21  311 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

piers.  What  drew  him  toward  a  group  of  white 
men  he  did  not  know.  It  was  one  of  those 
mysterious  "hunches."  Perhaps  it  was  their  ex- 
cited gestures.  At  any  rate,  he  approached. 
Three  of  the  men  were  officers  off  some  vessel  in 
the  harbor,  and  the  fourth  was  a  landsman. 

"I  tell  you  Jason's  gone  to  the  palace  at  Johore. 
He's  the  only  expert  I've  got,  the  only  man  in 
Singapore  who  could  handle  your  work  just  now. 
The  Sultan  is  installing  new  plumbing.  It's  a 
four  or  five  weeks'  job,  and  I  can't  call  him  back 
for  a  job  that  isn't  worth  more  than  three  thousand 
rupees,  probably  a  good  deal  less." 

"But,  man,  can't  you  dig  up  some  one  for  us? 
We  can't  wait  for  your  expert  to  return  and  we 
can't  put  to  sea  with  fresh-water  tanks  aleak  and 
the  piping  broken  God  knows  where!  I  can't 
afford  to  have  any  native  tinkering  around  my 
ship.  It's  no  ordinary  job.  Why  can't  you 
handle  it  personally?" 

"Simply  because  while  I  manage  a  shop  I'm  no 
expert  plumber.  Jason  is  probably  the  only  man 
in  Singapore  who  knows  anything  about  ship 
plumbing." 

Ship  plumbing!  William's  heart  leaped  thun- 
derously. So  much  depended  upon  his  address. 
He  called  it  bluff.  He  would  have  exchanged  a 
year  of  his  life  for  ten  minutes  of  that  old  fear- 
lessness. If  he  could  keep  his  voice  steady,  mask 
his  anxiety.  .  .  .  He  stepped  forward. 

"Pardon  me,  but  are  you  looking  for  an  expert 
plumber?  I'm  one." 

312 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

The  four  turned  upon  him  abruptly  and  rather 
resentfully.  They  were  English.  Hidebound 
in  their  dislike  and  suspicion  of  all  things  which 
did  not  conform  with  routine,  they  instantly 
looked  upon  William  as  an  impertinent  bounder. 
But  William's  bold  front  and  good  clothes  dissi- 
pated their  first  impression  that  he  might  be  a 
beach-comber.  One  of  the  officers  saw  him  for 
exactly  what  he  was,  an  idle  tourist.  He  decided 
in  this  instance  to  discount  formality  in  favor  of 
common-sense. 

"You  are  an  American,  I  fancy?" 

"I  am,  and  I'm  an  expert  plumber.  Couldn't 
help  overhearing  your  talk.  I've  nothing  to  do, 
so  I  thought  I  might  be  able  to  help  you  out.  It's 
dull  between  boats,  and  Raffles' s  isn't  a  lively  joint 
just  now.  And  I  know  something  about  the  in- 
sides  of  a  ship." 

Which  was  perfectly  true.  Like  all  skilled  me- 
chanics, William  was  of  an  investigating  trend. 
He  could  pass  a  Corregio  or  a  Titian  without  a 
thrill;  but  a  piece  of  strange  machinery  hypno- 
tized him.  Due  to  the  friendliness  of  the  Ajax's 
chief  engineer,  William  had  familiarized  himself 
with  that  marvelous  network  of  pipes  which 
sprawls  hither  and  yon  between  the  decks  of  all  big 
sea-going  steamers  until  he  knew  them  as  the  lines 
in  his  palm.  So  he  was  not  throwing  his  dice 
blindly. 

The  chief  engineer — for  William  recognized  his 
stripes — looked  at  his  watch.  After  all,  the  situa- 
tion was  quite  as  unusual  as  this  young  man's 

313 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

offer.  It  was  no  time  to  dodder,  unless  he  wanted 
to  lay  up  in  port  for  weeks.  It  might  be  that  he 
had  fallen  into  a  bit  of  genuine  luck. 

"Five  o'clock.  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  take  a 
chance.  Step  aboard  the  launch,  Mr.  — " 

"Grogan — William  Grogan,  of  Burns,  Dolan  & 
Co.,  New  York." 

"Glad  if  you  can  help  us." 

"You've  got  a  good  working-plan  of  the  pi- 
ping?" 

"Yes.  Queer  game.  Usually  the  carpenter 
and  the  assistant  engineer  could  have  handled  the 
job.  They  left  the  ship  at  Saigon.  Lascar  crew 
— good  servants,  good  sailors,  but  not  up  to  a  job 
like  this.  And  everybody  in  Singapore  is  on 
some  other  job.  Worse  luck!" 

At  seven  o'clock  William  had  located  the  vital 
spots.  The  port  side  of  the  main  deck,  forward 
and  amidship,  would  have  to  be  torn  up.  The 
job  would  take  perhaps  eight  or  ten  days.  He 
would  depend  upon  the  manager  for  helpers. 
He  would  give  his  services  as  expert  for  two 
hundred  dollars;  they  could  accept  it  or  decline 
it,  as  they  pleased.  The  manager,  seeing  his 
profits  dwindling — but  forgetting  that  he  was  in 
luck  to  have  any  profits — swore  roundly  that  the 
price  was  exorbitant. 

"Give  it  and  have  done  arguing,"  cried  the 
chief  engineer.  "We're  in  a  bally  rotten  hole, 
and  this  chap  seems  able  to  help  us  out.  The 
whole  job  will  come  to  about  two  hundred  pounds. 
Our  lines  give  you  a  deal  of  business,  man,  and  for 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

once  I  fancy  you  can  cut  down  your  profits  a 
little  to  save  us  time." 

The  manager  finally  agreed  to  the  terms,  and 
William  started  back  to  town.  The  sweat  he 
wiped  from  his  forehead  could  not  be  charged  to 
the  heat.  Two  hundred  dollars!  There  was 
something  in  this  Irish  luck,  after  all. 

On  the  day  William  pocketed  his  precious  forty 
pounds  Ruth  opened  her  eyes  sanely.  William 
came  into  the  room  just  as  he  had  left  the  ship. 
His  finger-nails  were  broken  and  grimed,  his  face 
was  streaked  with  sweat  and  dust,  his  clothes  were 
covered  with  oil-stains  and  emanated  the  odor  of 
gasolene,  and  his  beard  was  three  days  old.  When 
he  saw  sanity  in  her  glance,  he  broke  down;  and 
the  nurse,  fearful  that  his  emotion  might  upset 
the  patient,  ordered  him  from  the  room. 

In  a  little  while  he  begged  the  nurse  to  let  him 
come  back;  he  promised  he'd  make  no  noise,  that 
he  would  not  touch  the  patient ;  all  he  wanted  was 
to  see  if  he  was  really  recognized.  It  was  hard 
for  the  nurse  to  deny  this  man  anything,  now  that 
she  knew  him. 

' '  Just  for  a  minute, ' '  she  said.  ' '  She  must  have 
absolute  quiet." 

William  tiptoed  to  the  bed.  "Do  you  know 
me,  sister?" 

Sister?  He  called  her  that?  Had  it  been  a 
dream,  then?  But  Ruth  was  too  weak  and  tired 
to  think.  She  smiled  a  little  and  closed  her  eyes. 

As  troubles  never  come  singly,  neither  do  the 
good  things.  The  consul-general  returned  from 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

his  hunting  trip,  despatched  documentary  evidence 
sufficient  to  establish  William's  right  to  his  letter 
of  credit,  explained  the  situation  to  the  manage- 
ment of  the  Raffles's,  and  William's  financial 
difficulties  became  recollections.  He  had  his 
trunk  and  grips  brought  down  to  the  room  adjacent 
to  Ruth's,  and  his  only  care  was  to  wait  upon  her, 
to  share  through  the  nights  the  burdens  of  the 
nurse,  and  to  assume  a  cheerfulness  he  was  far 
from  feeling.  Never  he  failed  to  call  Ruth  sister; 
never  by  word  or  sign  did  he  refer  to  the  past. 
When  the  day  came  when  she  was  able  to  walk 
alone  he  would  tell  her.  It  was  going  to  be  very, 
very  hard;  but  he  had  tightened  up  his  resolve  to 
a  point  where  no  self-interest  could  weaken  it. 
He  would  tell  her  the  plain,  honest  truth. 

The  slowness  of  Ruth's  convalescence  rather 
baffled  the  doctor.  Apparently  this  young  wife 
did  not  care  whether  she  got  well  or  not.  There 
was  none  of  the  usual  fretting  over  staying  in  bed ; 
she  seemed  content  to  lie  there  upon  her  pillows. 
The  doctor,  however,  did  not  confide  this  fact  to 
William. 

Two  weeks  passed  before  Ruth  was  able  to  sit  in 
a  chair.  They  carried  her  out  to  the  wide  veranda- 
gallery  whence  she  could  view  the  lovely  pano- 
rama of  the  harbor.  And  hour  after  hour  she 
sat  there,  staring  at  the  ships  as  they  came  in  or 
went  out  to  sea. 

During  the  hours  of  delirium  the  nurse  had 
managed  to  pick  up  enough  odds  and  ends  of  the 
truth  to  form  a  coherent  story.  And  all  her  sym- 

316 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

pathies  went  out  to  the  man.  The  moment  he 
came  into  the  room  he  radiated  love.  It  beamed 
from  his  eyes,  it  was  in  the  touch  of  his  big, 
clumsy,  toil-stained  hands,  it  was  manifest  in  his 
unforgetfulness.  All  day  long  he  labored  in  the 
heat;  but  he  never  was  too  weary  to  spend  half 
the  night  at  the  bedside.  The  nurse  wondered 
what  kind  of  vitality  it  was  this  man  drew  upon, 
since,  visibly,  he  had  no  way  of  renewing  it. 

Immediately  Ruth  regained  consciousness,  how- 
ever, the  nurse  was  keen  to  note  the  change  in  the 
man.  The  love  was  there,  but  he  hid  it,  repressed 
it,  stifled  it.  This  part  of  the  mystery  the  nurse 
could  not  solve. 

One  day,  when  she  was  able  to  walk  about, 
Ruth  asked — in  fact,  she  had  been  wanting  to  ask 
the  question  for  some  time,  but  until  now  could 
not  push  her  courage  to  the  point — if  she  had  had 
any  rings  on  her  hands  when  taken  ill. 

"Yes.  I  believe  Mr.  Grogan  took  them  off 
for  fear  you  might  lose  them,"  said  the  nurse. 
"You  flung  your  arms  about  a  good  deal.  You're 
a  lucky  woman,  Mrs.  Grogan.  How  that  man 
loves  you!  Of  course,  you  know  that  he  had  no 
money.  He  went  out  and  found  work.  He'd 
work  all  day  and  watch  at  your  bed  nearly  all 
night.  Sometimes  he  fell  asleep  in  the  chair,  and 
I  would  not  disturb  him  until  breakfast.  For  ten 
days  he  worked  from  six  in  the  morning  until  five 
in  the  afternoon,  and  the  pity  of  it,  it  wasn't 
needful.  But  he  thought  he  just  had  to  have 
money.  He  didn't  know  that  the  doctor  and  I 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

understood,  or  that  the  doctor  had  quietly  in- 
formed the  office  of  the  circumstances.  We  let 
him  work  because  if  he  didn't  have  something  to 
occupy  his  hands  he  would  have  fallen  ill  from 
sheer  worry.  He'd  got  the  idea  that  in  this  part 
of  the  world  nobody  trusted  any  one.  Well,  we 
don't,  everybody.  But  all  we  had  to  do  was  to 
look  into  his  eyes." 

The  nurse,  after  freshening  up  Ruth's  pillow, 
went  back  into  the  bedroom  to  make  the  bed. 

From  the  rickshaw-stand  in  the  court  below  the 
veranda  Ruth  could  hear  the  Chinese  boys  laugh- 
ing and  talking  in  their  queer  gutturals.  Occa- 
sionally one  hailed  a  prospective  passenger.  From 
the  sea  came  the  deep-throated  warning  of  an 
approaching  steamer.  Ruth  stared  at  the  fingers 
of  her  left  hand.  All  the  puzzling  mysteries 
vanished,  all  the  cobwebs  of  doubt  blew  away. 
She  was  married.  She  was  Mrs.  William  Grogan. 

Invalids  are  always  the  most  selfish  of  individ- 
uals. Being  an. invalid  Ruth  thought  of  herself 
only,  her  misery,  the  whole  dreary  failure  she  had 
made  of  life.  And  God  had  not  been  kind  enough 
to  let  her  die!  Married!  She  was  Mrs.  William 
Grogan.  He  had  taken  advantage  of  her  helpless- 
ness, her  mental  unbalance,  for  when  she  had  left 
that  hideous  place  in  Malay  Street  she  had  not 
been  strictly  accountable  for  her  subsequent  acts. 
Mrs.  Grogan! 

She  barely  noticed  him  when  he  came  in  that 
night.  He  attributed  her  demeanor  to  weariness. 
He  was  not  especially  quick-witted  to-night;  his 

318 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

thoughts  were  more  or  less  engaged  in  going  over 
that  afternoon's  adventure. 

Now  that  the  extraordinary  troubles  of  life 
had  simmered  down  into  the  matter-of-fact, 
every-day  affairs — now  that  Ruth  was  on  the  way 
back  and  there  was  money  in  his  pocket — it  oc- 
curred to  William  that  he  would  like  to  know  what 
had  become  of  the  man  Colburton.  After  an 
unsuccessful  series  of  inquiries  he  finally  decided 
that  the  only  avenue  open  was  the  house  in 
Malay  Street,  and  thither  he  directed  his  steps, 
careless  of  the  fact  that  his  hour  was  irregular, 
indifferent  if  any  saw  him.  He  wanted  news  and 
he  was  not  particular  how  this  news  was  acquired. 

The  woman  he  desired  most  to  see  answered  his 
ring.  She  was  not  going  to  let  him  in,  believing  his 
visit  of  a  hostile  nature. 

' '  Keep  that  door  open,"  he  said.  ' '  I  want  some 
questions  answered,  and  I  want  them  answered 
straight.  I  could  give  you  a  taste  of  the  British 
jail  here  if  I  wanted  to." 

"What  do  you  want  to  know?" 

"What's  become  of  Colburton?" 

"He  has  gone.     Sailed  away  in  his  yacht." 

"Didn't  know  but  he  might  be  dead." 

"No  fault  of  yours  that  he's  alive,"  the  woman 
replied,  sullenly. 

"What  happened  to  him  before  I  took  my  wife 
out  of  here?" 

The  woman  fell  back,  her  mouth  open.  "Your 
wife?" 

"Ye-ah." 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"She  is  your  wife?  Then  he  lied  to  me.  God 
knows  I'm  an  outcast,  but  I'm  not  fool  enough  to 
touch  anything  like  that.  I  thought  she  was  one 
of  those  women  who  play  for  big  stakes.  He 
swore  on  his  oath  that  she'd  run  away  from  him. 
He  offered  me  a  thousand  rupees  to  hold  her  for 
a  few  days.  How  was  I  to  know  that  he  was 
lying?" 

' '  Nothing  doing  with  that  line  of  talk.     You  can 
tell -a  good  woman  when  you  see  her." 

"I  only  saw  her  the  night  they  brought  her 
here.  One  of  my  girls  took  care  of  her." 

' '  Did  you  get  your  thousand  ?"  ironically. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then,  I  wont  offer  to  buy  you  a  new  ban- 
ister. I  want  to  know  just  what  happened." 

"You're  a  strong  man.  When  you  flung  him 
through  the  banister  he  fell  upon  his  face  in  the 
lower  hall.  I  had  him  carried  to  the  Chinese  quar- 
ters in  the  rear  and  held  him  there  until  I  could  get 
him  to  the  hospital  without  having  the  police  nos- 
ing around.  He  was  in  the  hospital  ten  days.  He 
came  out  badly  disfigured." 

"That's  the  best  news  I've  heard  in  days. 
Then  the  ladies  won't  break  their  necks  in  the  fu- 
ture running  after  him?  How  badly  disfigured?" 

"His  nose  and  jaw  were  broken.  His  face  will 
always  be  twisted.  Is  that  all?" 

"All,  Isobel,  all  that  I  wish  to  know." 

"You  won't  report  me  to  the  police?" 

"I  guess  not.  You  and  I  know  why.  A  decent 
woman  doesn't  want  this  kind  of  a  story  tagging 

320 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

her  around.  Disfigured,  huh?  What  became  of 
the  other  man,  Camden?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  that's  all  I  can  think  of  to-day." 

The  woman  shut  the  door  and  William  stepped 
off  the  porch  into  the  street.  So  Colburton  would 
go  through  life  disfigured?  That  was  more  com- 
forting than  to  know  that  he  was  dead.  He  judged 
Colburton  more  or  less  accurately.  Repulsive  to 
women,  no  longer  fawned  upon  except  for  his 
money,  never  able  to  shut  out  the  memory  of  that 
humiliating  beating  he  had  received  in  the  presence 
of  the  woman  he  had  wronged,  Colburton  would 
go  through  what  remained  of  life  tasting  daily  a 
bit  of  the  hell  he  had  so  carelessly  and  callously 
brewed  for  others.  Charity?  William  laughed. 
Pity?  He  rubbed  his  hands  pleasurably.  There 
are  some  deeds  it  is  not  human  to  forget  or  for- 
give ;  and  so  long  as  he  lived  there  would  remain  in 
William's  heart  some  dregs  of  the  poison  this  man 
Colburton  had  instilled  there.  All  the  sermons 
ever  preached  will  not  change  or  uproot  this 
quality  of  hatred;  not  in  a  strong  man. 

The  nurse  still  slept  on  the  cot  on  the  veranda. 
So  Ruth  was  alone  now  during  the  nights.  The 
doctor  had  decreed  thus.  The  patient's  eyes,  un- 
attracted  by  movement  of  any  kind,  were  more 
likely  to  close;  and  Ruth  needed  sleep,  long  hours 
of  it.  But  if  she  could  not  see,  she  could  hear  the 
infinitesimal  sounds  of  the  night:  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  on  the  stand,  running  water  in  some  room 
a  dozen  doors  away,  the  light  crunch  of  passing 

321 


THE  LUCK  OF -THE  IRISH 

rickshaws,  the  snap  of  a  match  in  the  court,  and 
the  pacing  of  the  man  in  the  next  room,  her 
husband. 

She  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  counting  these 
steps.  It  took  fourteen  to  make  the  length  of  his 
room,  but  always  on  the  return  he  paused  midway 
for  some  reason.  He  was  thinking,  then?  Ah, 
she  believed  she  knew  what. 

Suddenly,  one  night,  she  heard  a  new  sound. 
It  was  the  door-knob!  The  white  enamel  fas- 
cinated her,  for  she  could  see  it  dimly  beyond  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  Knowing  how  powerful  he  was, 
that  a  lock  was  nothing  if  once  he  set  his  strength 
against  it,  she  became  icy  with  terror.  She  was 
about  to  summon  the  nurse  when  the  rattle 
ceased.  She  heard  him  walk  out  to  the  veranda, 
and  later  she  sensed  the  faint  odor  of  pipe-tobacco. 
She  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  nine.  The  door- 
knob was  not  disturbed  again  that  night. 

For  five  consecutive  nights,  however,  the  knob 
rattled;  always  somewhere  around  nine,  after  the 
nurse  had  retired.  Her  terror  grew  and  grew;  it 
was  setting  her  back.  And  yet,  how  could  she 
tell  him?  How  could  she  call  the  nurse  and  tell 
her? 

On  the  sixth  night,  after  the  usual  pacing,  she 
heard  him  turn  the  knob  again,  but  this  time  there 
came  a  gentle  rapping. 

"Ruth?"  he  called. 

She  did  not  answer.     She  sat  up  rigidly. 

"Ruth,  I  must  talk  to  you." 

Then  she  spoke.     ' '  What  is  it  ?" 
322 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

"I've  got  something  to  say  to  you,  and  I  can't 
tell  it  to  you  while  the  nurse  is  around." 

"Can't  you  tell  me  through  the  door?" 

"No.  This  thing  has  got  to  be  a  face-to-face 
business." 

She  got  out  of  bed,  turned  on  the  light,  and  put 
on  her  kimono.  Easily  five  minutes  passed  before 
she  felt  strong  enough  to  go  to  the  door. 

As  she  opened  it  and  stepped  back,  her  shoulders 
were  dripping.  She  was  so  weak  that  if  he  touched 
her  she  must  fall.  But  he  did  not  enter  the  room. 
He  stood  on  the  threshold  and  stared  at  her 
miserably. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

HIS  hair  was  rumpled;  he  had  thrown  off  his 
coat  and  collar,  and  the  shirt  was  open  at  the 
throat.  His  shoulders  filled  the  doorway ;  through 
the  thin  texture  of  the  silk  shirt  the  great,  quiescent 
muscles  were  conspicuous;  and  yet  his  air  was  one 
of  abject  helplessness.  He  ran  his  fingers  through 
his  hair  as  if  to  reassure  himself.  She  was  by  now 
very  familiar  with  his  gesture. 

"I've  been  a  coward,"  he  began,  his  glance  rov- 
ing and  pausing,  avoiding  as  much  as  he  could  her 
wide,  startled  gray  eyes.  "But  I  couldn't  put 
it  off  any  longer.  I've  got  to  tell  you  what's  on 
my  mind,  and  I  don't  want  any  strangers  around. 
God  knows  it's  hard  enough  as  it  is!" 

She  might  have  been  marble,  for  all  the  visible 
effect  of  those  halting  words. 

"In  the  first  place,  I  want  you  to  forgive  me  the 
wrong  I've  done  you." 

"Wrong?"  The  trend,  so  absolutely  at  vari- 
ance with  what  she  had  been  expecting,  befogged 
her. 

"Ye-ah.  I  didn't  honestly  mean  anything 
wrong,  but  I've  done  a  whole  lot  of  thinking  lately. 
/When  I  asked  you  to  marry  me  you  weren't  your- 
self. You'd  just  been  through  seven  kinds  of  hell. 

324 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE   IRISH 

And  I  didn't  know  that  I  was  thinking  a  lot  about 
William  Grogan  when  I  asked  you;  but  I  guess  I 
was.  When  I  said  I  loved  you,  God  knows  that 
was  square  and  true  enough.  I  guess  I  began  lov- 
ing you  from  the  first  day  you  walked  past  my  cel- 
lar window;  but  I  didn't  wake  up  to  the  fact  until 
you  came  aboard  the  Ajax.  Yes,  that  was  honest 
enough.  But  deep  down  somewhere  I  thought 
maybe  I  might  have  a  chance  if  you  were  married 
to  me.  Well,  what  I  had  on  my  mind  was  this: 
to  give  you  a  name  until  we  got  back  to  the 
States,  to  have  the  right  to  take  care  of  you,  to  see 
that  you  had  everything.  I  didn't  know  that  you 
were  coming  down.  Perhaps  I  wasn't  very  steady 
myself;  I'd  just  been  through  a  whale  of  a  fight. 
If  you've  been  through  hell,  so  've  I — When  you 
didn't  turn  up  on  the  Ajax,  when  you  lay  there  in 
that  bed  and  we  did  not  know  which  way  it  was 
going.  Well,  when  we  got  back  to  the  States  I 
was  going  to  give  you  your  freedom  and  tide  you 
over  the  bumps  until  the  .  .  .  the  right  one  came 
along." 

His  fingers  went  into  his  hair  again. 

"That's  what  I  had  in  my  poor  old  coco,  what  I 
had  to  tell  you  to-night  or  choke  to  death.  I 
couldn't  sleep,  thinking  you'd  put  me  in  the  same 
boat  with  other  men.  Colburton  won't  bother 
you  any  more.  He's  gone  back  with  his  face  out 
of  plumb.  I'd  be  a  liar  if  I  said  I  wasn't  glad, 
damned  glad.  He  got  what  was  coming  to  him. 
And  now  that  I've  got  it  all  off  my  chest,  you  just 
buck  up,  sister,  and  forget  it.  When  we  get  back 

325 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

to  little  old  United,  we'll  fix  up  things.  I  know 
you've  been  worrying  a  lot.  Gee!  what  woman 
wouldn't  have  worried?  And  you've  been  mighty 
kind  to  me.  If  I  remember  anything  about 
history  or  pictures  or  churches  it's  because  you 
told  me;  if  I  remember  any  place  it's  because  you 
were  there  with  me.  I  can't  lose  you  altogether. 
I  want  to  fix  it  up  so's  sometimes  I  can  come 
around  and  hear  you  play  the  piano.  All  I  want 
you  to  do  is  to  get  well  and  make  believe  the  whole 
business  was  a  bad  nightmare.  That's  all,  sister. 
Good  night." 

He  smiled,  reached  in  and  caught  hold  of  the 
knob,  closing  the  door  rather  hastily.  He  did 
not  want  to  hear  her  voice,  he  did  not  care  for 
any  expression  of  gratitude.  He  had  burned  his 
bridges,  and  his  heart  could  not  stand  any  more. 

Ruth  often  wondered  in  after  days  how  long  she 
had  remained  standing  there  in  the  middle  of  her 
room,  entranced,  incapable  of  stirring  hand  or  foot 
or  withdrawing  her  dry-eyed  gaze  from  that  door 
which  had  strangely  lost  its  sinister  significance. 

The  spell  was  broken  by  the  touch  of  the  nurse's 
hand.  "Did  you  call,  Mrs.  Grogan?  I  thought  I 
heard  voices.  Please  go  right  back  to  bed. 
Mercy!  your  shoulders  are  dripping  with  sweat! 
That's  bad.  Come,  please." 

Docilely  Ruth  permitted  the  nurse  to  put  her  to 
bed  and  tuck  her  in.  But  sleep  never  came  to  her 
that  night.  She  lay  there  thinking,  thinking; 
dawn  came  and  daylight,  and  still  the  tumult  in 
her  mind  abated  not  a  jot.  A  cheat!  Was  she 

326 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

always  going  to  be  one?  Wasn't  it  in  her  to  play 
fair  even  with  William  Grogan,  who  had  fought 
for  her  like  one  of  the  ancient  heroes,  who  had 
denied  himself,  toiled  in  the  hot  sun  for  her,  and 
guarded  her  at  night  ?  Her  superiority,  her  blood- 
stock, her  education,  her  talent,  what  were  these 
compared  with  the  pure  nobility  of  the  heart? 
A  cheat!  She  doubled  her  knees,  laid  her  head 
upon  them,  and  rocked. 

She  did  not  comprehend  immediately  what  this 
whole-hearted  self-condemnation  signified,  that 
she  had  reached  the  turning-point  in  her  outlook 
upon  life.  Curtain  after  curtain  was  torn  aside, 
and  at  last  there  was  light  in  all  the  corners  of  her 
soul.  She  knew  Ruth  Warren  for  what  she  was. 

One  morning,  some  days  later,  she  sprang  out  of 
bed,  stronger  than  she  had  been  at  any  time  during 
her  convalescence.  Life!  Real  life,  the  day-by- 
day  affairs;  never  again  to  look  at  life  obliquely, 
but  squarely;  to  accept  the  inevitable,  clear-eyed, 
head  high;  to  shoulder  cheerfully  the  burden  of 
each  day  and  cheerfully  to  lay  it  down  at  night ;  to 
drive  away  the  false  gods  of  complacency  and  self- 
interest.  .  .  .  Not  her  kind?  No,  William  Gro- 
gan was  not  her  kind.  Never  would  she  be  able  to 
pull  herself  up  to  his  level.  He  would  have  to  do 
that. 

Self-analysis  is  the  best  of  moral  tonics.  The 
fact  that  we  can  dig  into  our  innermost  thoughts 
and  distinguish  the  good  from  the  bad,  that  we  are 
able  to  weigh  justly  the  one  against  the  other,  is 
in  itself  a  spur  to  noble  deeds.  By  this  process  we 

22  337 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

become  capable  of  forgiving  wrongs,  of  bursts  of 
real  generosity  and  sacrifice.  In  face  of  such  mag- 
nanimity as  William  had  exhibited  Ruth  could  be 
no  less  magnanimous  herself. 

The  determination  which  stirred  her  heart  was 
not  based  upon  pride.  Sometimes  we  are  credited 
with  lofty  actions  when  in  truth  we  are  urged 
forward  only  by  a  sense  of  shame.  But  Ruth  had 
found  herself.  No  more  self-lies,  no  more  eva- 
sions; she  stood  free  at  last,  on  rock,  the  morass 
behind  her.  An  obligation  was  no  longer  a  thing 
to  run  around ;  she  would  meet  each  one  as  it  came, 
honestly  and  squarely.  And  there  was  something 
in  her  heart  this  morning  she  did  not  quite  under- 
stand. 

She  drew  her  kimono  over  her  shoulders  and 
walked  boldly  into  William's  room.  He  was  not 
there.  The  bed  had  not  been  touched.  It  was  a 
man's  room,  but  it  was  the  room  of  a  man  who 
took  care  of  his  belongings,  who  was  orderly  with- 
out being  finical.  Upon  the  chairs  lay  clothes 
neatly  folded;  just  under  the  bed  were  several 
pairs  of  shoes,  the  heels  in  soldierly  alignment. 
There  was  no  litter  at  all  except  in  one  obscure 
corner  where  he  had  made  a  bundle  of  his  working- 
clothes.  She  recalled  what  the  nurse  had  told  her 
about  his  going  out  in  search  of  work,  for  fear  they 
might  not  have  money  to  pay  the  bills.  Her 
imagination  constructed  a  picture.  She  saw  him 
laboring  under  the  blistering  decks,  from  early 
morn  until  sundown,  and  then  watching  half  the 
night  at  her  bedside.  All  for  her!  The  walls  and 

328 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

the  furnishings  of  the  room  became  grotesquely 
twisted,  and  she  knew  that  her  eyes  had  filled 
with  tears. 

She  looked  down  at  her  ringless  hand.  She 
knew  now  why  he  had  taken  off  the  rings.  The 
singular  thoughtfulness  of  the  act !  He  was  a  man, 
strong  in  the  body  and  strong  in  the  soul.  He  had 
the  strength,  the  moral  strength,  to  let  her  go! 

Timidly — for  her  initial  boldness  was  gone  now 
— she  approached  the  table.  Propped  against 
some  books — books  he  was  reading  to  please  her — 
she  saw  the  photograph  she  had  given  him  in 
Venice.  And  there  was  his  pipe.  She  took  it  up. 
She  turned  it  about  in  her  hands.  She  saw  where 
his  strong  teeth  had  worn  away  the  stem.  She 
studied  it,  not  because  she  was  particularly  in- 
terested in  the  pipe  itself,  but  because  it  suggested 
intimacy;  it  was  almost  as  if  she  were  touching 
the  man  himself.  And  he  was  a  man. 

Suddenly  she  smiled;  and  when  a  woman  smiles 
like  that  L  there  is  either  an  epic  or  an  idyl  in 
the  air.  The  epic  in  this  instance  had  already 
been  written. 

As  she  laid  down  the  pipe  he  came  in,  and  halted 
by  the  door  in  his  astonishment. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  she  questioned,  with  a 
nod  toward  the  untouched  bed. 

"Why,  I  couldn't  sleep  in  here  last  night;  too 
muggy.  So  I  spent  the  night  over  on  the  grass- 
plot  down  by  the  sea.  Slept  like  a  top.  And  how 
do  you  feel  this  morning?" 

"I'm  a  good  deal  better." 
329 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

He  nodded  comprehendingly.  Her  terror  gone, 
she  would  naturally  pick  up  from  now  on. 

"And  I'm  crazy  to  go  home.  When  can  we 
start?" 

"Think  you'll  be  strong  enough  two  weeks  from 
to-day?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I'm  going  to  get  stronger  every 
minute."  She  spoke  boldly,  but  she  no  longer 
felt  boldy.  She  had  entered  this  room  with  a 
great  resolve;  and  now  she  was  afraid.  Afraid  of 
what?  She  did  not  know,  unless  it  was  that  Wil- 
liam did  not  look  homely  this  morning. 

"That's  the  way  to  talk,"  said  he,  briskly. 
"I'll  see  about  passage  to-day.  Gee!  but  I'm  a 
homesick  pup  myself." 

It  was  the  prospect  of  her  freedom  that  had  put 
this  new  spirit  into  her.  Well,  that  was  logical. 
But  he  was  going  to  be  very,  very  glad  to  walk  into 
Burns,  Dolan  &  Go's,  and  get  into  his  working- 
togs  again.  God  bless  tobacco  and  God  bless 
work;  a  man  could  manage  to  forget  a  good  deal 
by  the  aid  of  these  two  comforts. 

He  sighed. 

"What  made  you  sigh  like  that  ?"  she  asked. 

"Who,  me?    I  didn't  sigh,  did  I?" 

' '  Like  a  house  afire.  What  made  you  ?"  Never 
in  all  her  life  had  she  been  so  happy.  "What 
made  you?"  she  repeated. 

"I  can't  tell  you,  sister." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  palm  upward.  He  eyed 
it,  his  expression  one  of  mystification.  He  was 
poles  away  from  the  true  meaning  of  the  gesture. 

330 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

The  fact  is,  the  idyl  was  about  to  be  written.  He 
advanced  toward  her  irresolutely. 

"What's  the  matter,  sister?" 

"Don't  you  ever  call  me  that  again,  William 
Grogan!  I  ...  I  want  my  rings." 

Mystification  resolved  into  blank  stupidity. 

"Do  you  hear  me?  My  rings!  ...  Or  don't 
you  want  me?  Are  you  going  to  let  me  go?" 

He  started  to  run  his  fingers  through  his  hair, 
but  she  caught  his  hand  and  drew  it  down,  clinging 
to  it. 

"And  you  thought  I  was  going  to  let  you  go! 
Oh,  man,  man!  If  you  could  only  see  yourself  a 
little  as  I  see  you.  And  if  God  had  made  it  pos- 
sible for  me  to  love  you  as  you  are  worthy  to  be 
loved!  There  is  no  flame  or  fire  in  what  I  offer 
you;  but  I'd  give  you  my  heart's  blood  if  you 
wanted  it  or  needed  it.  There  are  some  dreams 
that  never  come  true;  and  yours  and  mine  are  like 
that.  But  you  are  the  bravest  and  kindliest  man 
I  have  ever  known,  and  I  think  you'll  understand 
me.  And  don't  think  for  a  moment  that  it's  sacri- 
fice on  my  part.  No.  I  want  you;  I  couldn't  get 
along  without  you;  and  I  want  to  belong.  What 
good  there  is  in  me  you  stirred  and  brought  into 
life.  And  once  I  thought  I  was  superior!" 

The  blood  was  rushing  into  his  throat  and  drum- 
ming in  his  ears.  She  went  on.  He  hadn't  the 
power  to  interrupt  her. 

' '  I  will  be  a  true  wife  to  you,  William  Grogan.  I 
will  work  for  you  and  with  you,  I  will  try  to  make 
you  happy,  help  you  in  your  ambition,  be  with  you 

331 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

and  of  you  until  the  end  of  time.  And  you 
thought  I  was  going  to  let  you  go!  You  put  me 
on  a  pedestal,  and  you've  seen  what  poor  stuff 
it  was  made  of.  But  I  didn't  put  you  on  a  pedes- 
tal. When  my  eyes  opened  you  were  already  on 
one,  all  gold.  Will  you  help  me  climb  up  there 
with  you ?  That  is,  if  you  want  me?" 

' '  Want  you  ?"     He  dared  not  touch  her  yet. 

"Ye-ah!  "  She  laughed  and  tugged  at  his  hand 
again.  "Do  you  remember  the  day  of  the  ty- 
phoon? You  called  me  a  little  fool.  I  wasn't.  I 
was  a  great  and  glorious  fool.  Will  you  ever  forget 
the  feel  of  the  wind  and  water  in  your  hair?  .  .  . 
You  held  me  pretty  tight  that  day.  Suppose  you 
do  it  again  and  kiss  me,  being  as  I  am  your  true 
wife?  And  do  it  before  the  nurse  comes  and  sends 
me  back  to  bed!" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

WILLIAM  sat  sprawled  in  a  comfortable  can- 
vas chair  before  the  door  of  his  room.  The 
long  veranda-gallery  was  deserted  except  for  him- 
self. He  smoked,  but  only  enough  to  keep  the  coal 
alive  in  his  pipe.  He  was  watching  the  rickshaw 
road  through  the  interstices  of  the  veranda  rail. 

It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  this  was  the  mid- 
dle of  March.  All  over  New  York  State,  including 
the  great  city,  there  would  be  alternately  rain, 
snow,  sleet,  sunshine,  and  blizzards.  If  you  had 
offered  William  his  choice  he  would  have  selected  a 
blizzard  of  Wyoming  dimensions.  This  weather 
here  in  Singapore  took  the  starch  out  of  a  man. 
No  matter  how  strong  and  healthy  you  were,  you 
got  tired  quickly,  the  least  exertion  enervated  you. 
At  this  moment  it  was  picturesque  enough — a  bit 
of  blue  sea  out  yonder,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
dusted  with  gold  of  a  late  afternoon. 

He  fell  to  musing.  He  was  always  doing  that 
nowadays.  His  wonder  was  un diminished ;  in 
fact,  it  went  on  growing  and  growing.  He,  Wil- 
liam Grogan,  here  in  Singapore,  with  scarcely  a 
dream  left  unfulfilled !  He  worried  a  little.  Things 
didn't  work  out  that  way,  not  even  in  his  favorite 
novels. 

333 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Two  little  tan  shoes  flitting  past  his  cellar  win- 
dow .  .  .  and  then  this!  A  seven-dollar  meer- 
schaum pipe  and  a  ticket  around  the  world  in  his 
pocket!  He  laughed.  Instead  of  the  usual  "God 
bless  our  home"  he  was  going  to  have  "The  luck 
of  the  Irish"  done  in  blue  and  red  yarn — that  is,  if 
Ruth  did  not  object. 

Where  were  Greenwood  and  Clausen,  the  lovable 
old  archaeologists  ?  Would  he  ever  see  them  again  ? 
He  recalled  the  Arab  boy  in  Cairo,  the  ride  to 
Suez,  the  big  storm.  .  .  .  Married  and  settled 
down!  And  when  he  came  home  nights  she'd 
play  for  him  on  the  piano,  those  strange  skin- 
tingling  melodies  she  knew  so  much  about.  And 
there  was  that  Jaipur  elephant  with  the  rheumatic 
leg! 

Ruth,  who  had  gone  shopping,  ought  to  be 
coming  along  soon.  They  were  to  sail  at  nine  that 
night  for  Hong-Kong  and  home. 

Ambition.  How  he  was  going  to  work  when  he 
got  back  to  New  York !  Burns,  Dolan  &  Co.  had 
loomed  very  big  once  upon  a  time;  but  now  he 
knew  it  to  be  only  a  step ;  and  there  would  be  other 
steps,  each  one  higher  than  the  other;  and  before 
he  rested  he  was  going  up  high.  He  knew  it ;  there 
wasn't  a  particle  of  doubt  in  his  mind. 

There  was  only  a  speck  in  the  amber.  They 
would  have  to  wait  a  little  while  for  that  home  with 
the  garden.  Four  thousand;  that  was  a  lot  of 
money  just  then.  That  and  a  small  mortgage 
would  have  built  his  castle  from  moat  to  turret, 

334 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

Well,  they  were  young;  they  could  wait.  She 
wanted  it  so,  and  she  was  captain.  When  a 
woman  got  such  an  idea  in  her  head,  arguments 
were  useless.  He  could  get  her  point  of  view  read- 
ily enough,  but  she  could  not  get  his.  She 
paid  for  those  pearls  a  thousand  times  over,  but 
he  couldn't  convince  her  of  that.  One  thing, 
he  would  never  look  upon  a  pearl  again  without  a 
glow  of  anger.  Sixteen  little  round  white  pebbles 
worth  four  thousand  dollars ! 

He  heard  a  footfall.  He  turned  and  saw  Ruth 
coming  toward  him.  There  was  a  look  on  her  face 
that  quickened  his  pulse.  She  forced  him  back 
into  the  chair  and  perched  herself  upon  the  arm, 
curling  her  fingers  in  his  hair. 

"William  Grogan,"  she  said. 

"Well,  friend  wife,  what's  happened?" 

She  told  him. 

Ruth  laid  the  little  box  on  the  jeweler's  counter. 
"I  should  like  to  price  sixteen  pearls  to  match 
these  and  fill  out  the  string." 

The  jeweler  emptied  the  box  on  a  bit  of  velours. 
He  rolled  the  pearls  about  with  the  tip  of  his  finger, 
picked  one  up  and  scrutinized  it  carefully.  Then 
he  walked  over  to  the  window,  where  he  adjusted 
his  glass.  More  scrutiny.  He  returned. 

"Are  you  under  the  impression,  madam,  that 
these  are  real  pearls?"  he  asked,  staring  curiously 
at  Ruth's  pale  but  interesting  face. 

"Impression?"  she  echoed. 

"Yes.  I  can  give  you  sixteen  that  will  match  up 
335 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  IRISH 

N '  '  V 

these  for  about  a  hundred  rupees,  madam.  These 
were  originally  made  here  in  Singapore.  Admi- 
rable imitations  made  of  fish-scale." 

1 '  Fish  scale  ?"     Suddenly  Ruth  laughed. 

The  jeweler  caught  the  hysterical  note.  "Yes, 
madam."  His  thought  was:  here  is  another 
American  tourist  who  has  been  rooked. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  steadily.  "You  need 
not  bother  to  match  them,  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

"Very  well,  madam."  Deftly  he  replaced  the 
artificial  pearls  in  the  box,  which  he  extended  to 
her  with  a  bow. 

Ruth  went  out  into  the  street,  into  the  mellowing 
sunshine.  She  paused  at  the  curb  irresolutely. 
The  whole  drama  unrolled  itself  before  her  eyes, 
and  then  receded  forever.  She  took  off  the  lid  of 
the  box,  poured  the  pearls  into  her  hand,  and  then 
let  them  trickle  into  the  gutter. 


THE   END 


NOVELS  OF 

WILL   N.    HARBEN 

"His  people  talk  as  if  they  had  not  been 
in  books  before,  and  they  talk  all  the  more  in- 
terestingly because  they  have  for  the  most 
part  not  been  in  society,  or  ever  will  be. 
They  express  themselves  in  the  neighborly  par- 
lance with  a  fury  of  fun,  of  pathos,  and  profan- 
ity which  is  native  to  their  region.  Of  all  our 
localists,  as  I  may  call  the  type  of  American 
writers  whom  I  think  the  most  national,  no 
one  has  done  things  more  expressive  of  the  life 
he  was  born  to  than  Mr.  Harben." 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS.  t 

ABNER  DANIEL 

ANN   SO  YD     Illustrated 

DIXIE  HART.    Frontispiece 

GILBERT  NEAL.     Frontispiece 

MAM'  LINDA 

JANE  DAWSON.     Frontispiece 

PAUL  RUN  DEL.    Frontispiece 

POLE  BAKER 

SECOND  CHOICE.    Frontispiece 

THE  DESIRED  WOMAN.  Frontispiece 

THE  GEORGIANS 

THE  NEW  CLARION.    Frontispiece 

THE  REDEMPTION  OF  KENNETH 

GALT.     Frontispiece 
THE  SUBSTITUTE 
WESTERFELT 

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